


Gotham Files, Book 1 - City of Secrets

by Leen713



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:09:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23519743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leen713/pseuds/Leen713
Summary: A mysterious artifact opens up a new level of Gotham's underground for Oswald Cobblepot, employee of the notorious night club owner Fish Mooney. His newest assignment presents unexpected challenges as he plots his climb to the top of Gotham's criminal elite. Set prior to Gotham Season 1. Includes other characters from the DC universe.
Kudos: 1





	1. The Librarian

Oswald Cobblepot walked down the crowded street with a black umbrella open above his head. The rain was misty, noiseless against the canvas shrouding him. It was the kind of rain that stuck to your face and clothing no matter what one tried to use against the elements.

Most of the other pedestrians had not bothered to protect themselves from the drizzle, ignoring the precipitation as much as they were ignoring each other among the mob of bodies streaming onward down the worn pavement.

Typical day in Gotham City. Grey and wet and moving, like storm clouds over a dirty river. With the people flowing through it as mindlessly as the sickly fish swimming beneath the Metro-Narrows Bridge.

Oswald, however, moved with purpose, his sharp eyes taking in every detail of his surroundings. He paid attention. He observed and adapted each step to the city's incessant pulse. A pulse tied together by veins as bloody as those feeding his own beating heart.

His destination was the same as it had been each day for the past year. Mooney's Nightclub. It was located deep inside Don Falcone's territory, its unassuming entrance marked by the red, neon bones of a fish. Fish being the known name and title of the club's infamous owner.

Oswald turned a corner, away from the bustling main avenue and approached the entrance to Fish Mooney's establishment. He paused, the red light from the luminescent bones glinting off his cold blue eyes. He took a slow, deep breath, suppressing the wave of resentment which momentarily marred the sharp features of his face. His expression quickly softened, fading into a nervous, passive mask.

Pushing open the main door to the club, Oswald closed his umbrella, gently shaking water from its folds. He placed it against the front corner of the cloakroom, which was empty of any other garments this time of day. It was just before noon, several hours before Mooney's would open for the evening.

He tugged on his suit coat and vest, doing his best to ensure he would be presentable before encountering this employer. She had contacted him this morning to say she had a job for him. She had not given him any details other than she wanted him specifically to carry out the task.

Oswald walked past the bar toward the club's main hall. He spotted two of Ms. Mooney's hired guns sitting at nearby table. The large men were sharing a bottle of cheap whiskey, laughing about whatever inane topic engrossed their limited intellects.

One of the men glanced at Oswald as he approached and sneered.

“Yo, Penguin!” he called, “Heard you're gettin' library duty today. Think you can handle it?”

Oswald's stride did not slow as the other goon replied, “You're kidding? She's gonna send him? Neither Chet or Tony or Gilzean could get anything from that library bird. What's he gonna do?”

The men laughed as Oswald moved beyond the main hall toward a staircase behind the stage. He felt his face flush at their contempt and the use of the objectionable nickname bestowed upon him by the thugs in Ms. Mooney's employ. Oswald made his way up the hidden stairs, struggling to keep his temper in check.

Pawns, he thought bitterly, Just pawns. Some day... I'll show them who really controls this game...

As he reached the top step, Oswald spotted a man leaning casually in the open door frame to Fish Mooney's office. Butch Gilzean turned toward the stair and grinned.

“Morning, Oswald,” he said affably as the younger man approached, “Weather getting any better out there?”

Oswald returned the greeting with a seemly nervous smile, “Unfortunately not, Mr. Gilzean.”

“Too bad,” Butch replied, “Better keep that umbrella of yours handy then...”

“Oh?” Oswald asked, “Will Ms. Mooney be going out? Will she need me to...”

Butch held up a hand and Oswald paused.

“She's not the one who'll need it, pal,” Butch said, then jerked his head toward the office, “Go on in and Fish'll explain the job.”

Oswald nodded and shifted passed the larger man. He glanced around toward Ms. Mooney's desk and found it occupied by his employer, who was studying an object on her desk.

Fish Mooney looked up as Oswald approached and smiled. The expression did not touch her eyes. The dim light glinted off her gold adornments which stylishly complimented her low cut dress. Her presence seemed to fill the room, though bodily she was shorter than him and slim. Everything about her seemed to have an edge, razor fine and barbed, an aura of something dangerous.

Oswald stopped a few feet from her desk, consciously shifting from foot to foot in a way he hoped displayed barely contained anxiety. Fish waved a hand toward a nearby chair.

“Oswald,” she purred, and then added, “Please, sit.”

He did as she commanded, for the instruction had not been given out of courtesy. He folded his hands in his lap and met her gaze. She studied him for a moment, her brow creasing in thought, before she spoke again.

“How are you this evening, my boy?” she asked. Oswald allowed a timid smile to form on his face.

“Very well...” he replied, “Thank you, Ms. Mooney. I came as soon as I could after you called...”

“Of course you did,” Fish said, placing a red cloth over the object on her desk, “You are always so reliable. I value that in you. Some of the other boys around here can barely seem to read a clock, let alone be on time when I need them to be.”

Oswald lowered his head and looked at his clasped hands, appearing bashfully pleased at the compliment.

“Which is why I called you here so early today,” Fish continued, picking a red file folder from her desk and standing to walk around toward the younger man.

Oswald jumped to his feet as she neared, but she waved him down into his chair and then sat next to him. She held out the red folder and he took it, frowning.

“You know I have a particular love of antiquities,” Fish explained and Oswald nodded. Ms. Mooney's office was decorated with several pieces of her personal art collection, all which had been acquired via black market trading. Items which would have been more at home in a museum rather than a nightclub in downtown Gotham.

Fish continued, “As it happens, I have had something come into my possession that I would like to learn more about. It is covered in very old writing... in a language that only two people in this city can translate. One is the curator of Gotham's Natural History museum, who not only detests private collectors...especially me... but, frankly, is as blind as a bat...”

Oswald frowned curiously. Ms. Mooney had never spoken to him about her collection before. He had never really thought on it beyond the aesthetic nature, assuming Ms. Mooney simply enjoyed getting her hands on things that were rare and valuable. He never would have guessed she had any academic interest in those items.

“The other...” she said, with an odd smile, “... works at Gotham City Public Library. She's helped me with translations before. Unfortunately... she was a student of the museum curator, shares some of his feelings about privately held antiques and can be a bit... stubborn...”

Fish sighed and stood from her seat, heading back around her desk. She placed light fingers on the red cloth covering the object on her desk. Oswald opened the file folder and scanned the first page of information. It contained a brief description of the object, including the strange language that Fish needed translated.

“A librarian?” he asked, and then shook his head, “If she's only a librarian, then why not just send someone with a bribe? Or one of your other men to... persuade her...?”

Fish sighed again, “As I said... she's stubborn. And no bribes or... other persuasions... have convinced her to assist me in his venture.”

Oswald looked surprised and, for a rare moment, his expression matched what he was feeling. Fish Mooney had a small army of thugs whose main expertise was in bribing or physically “persuading” people do to what Fish wanted them to do. And she worked directly for Don Falcone. What made this librarian so immune to such tactics? If she would not take money, why had Fish's men not just thrown the librarian in the back of a van and dragged her here?

He closed the folder and asked, “Then what do you think I could do? If money or threats won't work...”

“Then...” Fish interrupted, “... I need you to try something else. Something... more subtle... to get her attention. If you can get her to look at the information in that folder... just one look... then I believe she will be very interested in examining this artifact.”

Fish delicately tapped one sharpened finger nail against the shrouded object on her desk.

“What do you suggest?” Oswald asked. With a gold plated fountain pen, she wrote a name on a piece of paper and handed it to him.

Fish Mooney shrugged dismissively, “I'm sure you'll think of something,” before adding with a dark grin, “I know you won't disappoint me.”

* * *

Gotham City Public Library sat on the cusp of the city's financial and educational districts. It was an imposing structure, embellished by dozens of statues and gargoyles whose faces were stained from decades of exposure to the damp weather.

Oswald Cobblepot scaled the front steps, taking caution not to slip on the wet marble. The rain had stopped and his umbrella was hooked over his left wrist, ready for action should the sky open up again. He entered the main doors and, stepping out of the main flow of foot traffic, glanced at the people within his view.

It was only just after 2 pm so the patrons were mostly comprised of elderly citizens and chattering groups of school students. His intended target was in her mid-20s so he had hoped she would stick out in the library's current population.

He walked along the stacks glancing down each aisle. Each person who appeared to be restocking books or helping wayward students was far older than the woman he was looking for.

Oswald made his way to the rear help desk. The counter was covered with postings for library events, fund raisers and other similar nonsense. Beyond the desk were two open doors leading to back storage rooms.

The only librarian present was a woman with graying hair who was assisting an elderly patron search the card catalog.

“Excuse me...” Oswald said, “I was wondering if you could...”

The librarian gave him a critical glance over her glasses and interrupted, “Just a moment, young man.”

Oswald put on a mask of good humor and smiled, “My apologies, ma'am, but I am in a bit of a hurry and...”

“Just a moment,” the woman repeated before turning her back to him and walking toward the stacks with her other customer.

A brief surge of anger washed over him at being so curtly dismissed. He took a breath and put his hands on the counter. He could hear other staff moving books in the back storage rooms and clenched his hands into fists. He hated being ignored and he needed to find his target quickly so he would have time to convince her to come to the club that night.

Oswald noticed a small silver bell next to a yellowing, large computer monitor.

Next to the bell was a colorful sign reading, “Need something? Give us a ring!”.

He rolled his eyes and tapped the bell three times.

“Just a minute!” a voice called from a back room. Oswald ground his teeth and scowled. He felt no need to maintain his passive facade when he was away from Mooney's club.

He turned to check whether or not the graying woman was returning when he heard someone walk out of one of the back rooms.

Oswald spun around, prepared to give this new arrival the full force of his displeasure, and found himself facing an auburn haired young woman. She placed a stack of books on the counter before speaking.

“Hi,” she said with a quick grin, “Sorry... it's a bit crazy back there...”

Oswald opened his mouth to reply but could not find words, his anger utterly forgotten. The woman before him was dressed simply, a soft white blouse hanging loose over denim jeans. Her hair was pulled back, a few wisps framing her face and curling up toward her blue eyes. She was a stark contrast to the sharp dressed socialites Oswald catered to at the club and, for some reason, she caught him off guard.

“Oh...hi...” he said, stammering slightly.

When he did not say anything additional, the woman repeated with a bemused but friendly smile, “Hi. Can I help you?”

“What?” he said, then shook his head, jarring himself back to clarity, “Oh... yes. Yes, you can.”

The woman nodded with a light chuckle, “Okay... What are you looking for?”

“Who,” Oswald said, tilting his head with an apologetic shrug, “It's who. I'm not looking for a book, I'm actually trying to find one of the librarians. Claire Selton?”

The woman blinked with surprise, “Oh. Well, you found her then.”

“You... you're...” Oswald said, “Oh... um... that's fortunate...”

“How can I help you, Mister...?” she asked curiously.

“Cobblepot,” he said quickly, then extended his hand, “Oswald Cobblepot.”

Claire Selton took his hand in return, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Cobblepot.” “

And you as well,” he said with a smile, then added, still holding her hand, “I've come on behalf of my employer. Fish Mooney.”

“Oh...” Selton said, the smile fading from her face as she released her grip and lowered her hand.

Oswald pulled the folder from beneath his coat as he spoke, “Yes. Ms. Mooney has acquired a very rare antique and was hoping you would help with its translation...”

He held the folder out to her but Selton made no move to take it. She sighed and leaned her hands against the counter that separated them.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Cobblepot,” she said, “But I can't take that.”

“But... why...?” he asked before Selton continued.

“Please,” she said, “Please... tell Ms. Mooney... I have no interest in whatever new thing she's picked up from the Underground criminals peddling stuff that should be in the museum...”

“Ms. Selton,” Oswald interrupted, “I implore you to reconsider. Ms. Mooney feels you're the only one in Gotham who would assist with...”

“You know you're not the first one she's sent to me about this,” Selton said her voice low but her eyes flashing with anger.

“No...” Oswald lied, then added in an apologetic tone, “I... I didn't realize that. Ms. Mooney only asked me to deliver this information in the hopes this antique might interest you.”

Selton narrowed her eyes slightly, examining him for a moment, and then sighed, “Well, as I said, I'm sorry. But I'm not interested. Tell her the only way I'll be interested is if she sends it to the museum... as a donation to...”

“Donation?” a third voice suddenly interjected, “What donation is this?”

Both Oswald and Selton glanced to the side to find the graying haired librarian approach their location. The look in the older woman's eyes was something Oswald was familiar with. He read greed as easily as any of the books surrounding them. An idea took quick shape in his mind even as Selton began to reply.

“It's nothing, Mrs. Tretter,” Selton said with a force smile, “Mr. Cobblepot was just...”

“Offering a donation for your children's fund raiser,” he interrupted, then added with a wide smile, “On behalf of my employer... Fish Mooney. She saw one of your fliers and asked me to come down and inquire for more information.”

He gestured to one of the bulletins posted on the help desk counter, another colorful affair to match the obnoxious bell sign. Selton gaped at him and then turned back toward the older woman.

“Mrs. Tretter, I don't think...” she began before the other librarian waved a hand at her to be quiet.

“What manner of donation was Ms. Mooney considering, Mr. Cobblepot?” she asked. Oswald continued to grin. He had read the older woman's eyes correctly. He noted Mrs. Tretter glancing over his well tailored suit, evidence that his claims may be true.

“Oh, a very substantial donation, I'm certain,” he said, “Which is why she sent me down to speak to Ms. Selton about the details.”

“Well, I'm sure I could just as easily assist with any transactions...,” Mrs. Tretter said.

Oswald shook his head apologetically, ready to weave the threads of his tale into a fully formed snare.

“Ms. Mooney specifically requested I deal with Ms. Selton on this matter,” he said, “You see, she would like to make the donation in dedication to the curator of the Natural History Museum. They're old friends and Ms. Selton was one of his students. But, I'll be sure to give her your name as the main contact for any financial transactions. After all, you are obviously very invested in the library's charitable work. But if you could just spare Ms. Selton for a few moments to indulge Ms. Mooney's request?”

Mrs. Tretter's face broke into a wide grin at this unexpected good fortune.

On the other hand, Selton's expression had shifted into an annoyed glare. She folded her arms across her chest, her eyes locked on Oswald as the older librarian addressed her.

“Well,” Mrs. Tretter said with breathy delight, turning toward the younger woman, “I'm sure we could spare you. Your shift is ending in an hour or so anyway, Claire. Why don't you take the rest of that time to discuss Ms. Mooney's offer with Mr. Cobblepot?”

Oswald smiled again and met Selton's gaze, his pleasure unaffected by her glare. He knew he held her in check at this stage of their game. Selton would either now need to deny a large donation to the library or meet with him and discuss his proposal. Selton did not immediately respond. The younger woman obviously did not share her elder's interest in monetary gains or any bribe Ms. Mooney imparted would have been accepted long before now.

“Claire?” Mrs. Tretter said, curtness again edging her voice.

As Oswald watched, an odd smirk crossed Selton's lips. It was an expression he could not fully read and, for the briefest moment, his confidence in the result of his actions wavered. This small doubt was unnerving, though it did not show on his face.

Then, with a sigh, the younger woman acquiesced, “Sure. If you don't mind... then I guess Mr. Cobblepot and I have some things to talk about.”

“Good,” the older librarian said, sounding relieved, “I'll leave you to it then. And, please, Mr. Cobblepot, extend my personal thanks to Ms. Mooney. Her generosity will benefit many of Gotham's children.”

“Of course, madam,” Oswald replied, “And thank you for all your assistance with this matter. For the children.”

As Mrs. Tretter walked away, Oswald gave Selton another triumphant smile and clasped his hands together.

“So,” he asked, “Shall we adjourn to one of the back offices...”

“No,” Selton said quickly, and Oswald's smile faded. For a moment, he wondered if she would redact her agreement. She leaned against the counter toward him again and shook her head, “Not here. Enough people already overheard your generous offer and will be wanting details... and dollar amounts. You know the diner down the block? Gracie's?”

Oswald nodded and Selton continued, “Meet me there in 20 minutes. Lunch rush is over so it shouldn't be crowded. Let them know you'll be meeting me and Grace will set you up with a rear booth.”

“Why not right now?” he asked not bothering to mask his suspicion, “How do I know you will arrive when you say?”

It was Selton's turn to give him a gleeful smile, “I guess you'll just have to trust me.”

Oswald scowled, opening his mouth to protest, when the young woman spoke again. She gestured toward the stacks of books she had been working with when he arrived.

“Just give me 20 minutes to get this stuff put away... and I'll be there,” she said. Her tone was conciliatory and, to his surprise, seemed genuine.

Oswald nodded, giving her another smile as he patted the pocket holding his watch.

“20 minutes then,” he agreed.

“Oh, and when you get there, put in an order for apple pie,” she said giving him another quick grin, “I think you'll find dessert makes me a much more agreeable audience.”


	2. Persuasion by Pastry

Oswald checked his pocket watch for the third time since being seated at Gracie's Diner. When he had arrived, he had done as suggested. Oswald let the hostess know he would be meeting Claire Selton and he was ushered to a rear booth positioned away from the diner's main aisle. He supposed Ms. Selton was a regular patron of the diner since it was so close to the library. Still, it was of interest to note the friendly service he received upon invoking the young lady's name.

The whole situation had played out as he had hoped. He found a way to sway his target toward Ms. Mooney's aims. Yet, somehow, much of the interaction had not been what was expected. He was not sure why Fish Mooney's other men had been unsuccessful in bringing the young woman to examine the artifact.

Claire Selton was not an imposing person, from what he had observed, especially when compared with his employer. She was of a height with him, unassuming and in no position of power of which he was aware. She certainly seemed to have some acumen regarding Fish Mooney's business dealings and Gotham's underground trade but hardly struck Oswald as any kind of threat.

_Eighteen minutes_ , Oswald noted, beginning to wonder he had been stood up despite Selton's assurances. She had been a difficult person to assess during their brief encounter. He viewed the world as a series of moves and counter-moves with some people being more of value to his plans than others. He did not like unpredictable elements. Chaos could be useful, but not now. Not yet.

Oswald looked his watch again as the diner's hostess, Grace, approached the table with the requested slices of apple pie.

"She'll be here, hun," the woman said, putting two plates on the table, "Don't worry."

"Excuse me?" he replied, her words pulling him from his thoughts.

"Claire. She'll be here," Grace repeated with a smile before turning back toward the main counter.

Oswald frowned, glaring as the woman walked away. Her assurances made him feel even more uneasy. Was the diner's owner playing a part of some kind of ruse, orchestrated along side Ms. Selton? Perhaps this was how the librarian had dodged Mooney's other men. Send them on with promise of rendez vous, only to be stalled by her allies as she disappeared into the city?

His cool veneer was nearly broken as his temper flared. He did not like to be made the fool, and Selton would pay if she dared to...

"Hi," a voice said from his left as Claire Selton walked passed and took the seat in the booth across from him.

Oswald stared for a moment, jolted out of his ire by the woman's sudden presence. He glanced down at his open watch and took note of the time.

"Twenty minutes," he said, snapping the watch closed and placing it in his pocket.

Selton shrugged, "I like to be punctual."

A slight smile formed on Oswald's face before he could fully collect himself and redirect his thoughts to the task at hand.

"Clearly," he replied, organizing his expression into a professional facade, "And I do appreciate you taking the time to meet with me."

Selton gave him a shrewd look, "Not like you gave me much of a choice."

Oswald shrugged and Selton sat back, looking amused.

"Pretty clever, the way you played Mrs. T," she continued, "There was really _no other way_ she would have let me leave shift early. Now I get why Fish sent you instead of one of her usual guys."

Privately, he was pleased by this distinction though his face betrayed nothing as he used a mock bashful glance toward his hands.

"I suppose everyone has their own talents," he said, pulling the folder once again from within is coat, "And Ms. Mooney has need of yours."

Oswald placed the folder on the table and pushed it toward the young lady.

Selton sighed and picked up the file. She did not open it, rubbing the red cover between her fingers and thumbs. She lay it back down and met his gaze.

"Do you know what she found?" the young lady asked, biting her lower lip.

"She's a collector," Oswald said, "Ms. Mooney has an appreciation for rare and valuable objects. As investments."

"Yeah, but... do you know... _really know_... what she found?" Selton asked again. He frowned in honest confusion and shook his head.

The librarian glanced to her left and stared out the window. He watched her closely, trying to make sense of the earnest nature of her question. Did it have something to do with the museum curator, her former teacher? Or had his employer acquired something of value beyond monetary considerations? This task was becoming quite the curiosity.

"I'm sorry to be such a pain," she said after a moment, looking back toward Oswald, "It's nothing personal. Fish Mooney knows how I feel about her _investments_. You're just the next unlucky guy who got stuck dealing with me."

The odd apology again caught him off guard. Conversing with the librarian continued to deviate from its expected course.

"Business with Ms. Mooney can be challenging," he said, shifting his face into an understanding smile, "But not necessarily without its benefits. I'm sure she'd be willing to compensate you in some way for your assistance. That is, beyond the donation promised to Mrs. Tretter."

At this, Selton laughed and gave him a grin. Oswald was pleased by this reaction, feeling he had retaken control of the discussion.

"Business with Fish can be _dangerous_ , I think you mean," she replied.

"True," Oswald said, then tilted his head and added, "So? Can I persuade you to read the contents of that file?"

The librarian sighed again, "Well... you did order the apple pie. I suppose I owe you at least a peek at it."

Oswald grinned, picking up his fork and claiming a piece of the dessert before him. The filling was sweet, too cloying for his preferred tastes, but he ate at a leisurely pace as his dining companion opened the file and began to read.

Selton only managed two bites from her own plate before her attention was focused solely on the file's contents. After a few minutes, he noticed the hand holding her silver utensil began to tremble slightly. The young lady's face appeared to have paled when her eyes finally lifted to meet his own.

"Where..." she began, the word catching in her throat, her voice low and urgent, " _Where did Fish get this?_ "

Oswald shook his head, "I don't know. That was not something Ms. Mooney chose to share with me."

Selton steepled her fingers and put them to her lips. She closed her eyes, taking a few more deep breaths before lowering her hands. He had the strangest sensation of a temperature shift, as if the air between them had grown warmer. Then the feeling was gone, and he dismissed it from his mind.

"Okay..." she finally said on an exhale, then repeated, "Okay... Tell Fish... Tell Ms. Mooney that I'll come. I'll come look at the artifact."

Oswald blinked in surprise and nodded, "I'm sure your assistance will be most appreciated."

"Really?" the young lady asked, seeming dazed, "I think my assistance might end up being most regretted..."

Oswald frowned but Selton spoke again before he could inquire about her meaning.

"What time?" she asked, "What time should I get there?"

"Seven o'clock?" he suggested, "The club will be open by then but Ms. Mooney usually doesn't begin personally seeing to her guests until about nine, after the headliner..."

"Okay. Seven it is," she pushed the remainder of the pie toward the center of the table, "Sorry, I'm not feeling as hungry as I thought."

Selton signaled for the check but Oswald waved her off.

"No need," he said, "I settled the tab before you arrived."

"Oh," she replied, "Thanks."

"No problem at all," he said, adding coyly, "Despite my earlier tactics to gain an audience with you, I really do try to be a gentleman."

Selton smiled and he felt unexpected relief as the friendly look returned to her face.

"Seven o'clock," the young lady repeated, continuing to smile as she rose from the table, "See you then, Oswald."

He turned to watch her go, his jaw setting into a pleased smirk in reaction to his success. The librarian had visibly been shaken by Fish's missive, a reaction Oswald intended to investigate. What exactly had Ms. Mooney acquired?


	3. Mooney's Mystery

"You're certain?" Fish Mooney asked, her cool eyes fixed on Oswald. She was seated at the bar, a glass of red wine held in one hand. Her relaxed posture starkly contrasted her tone.

"Yes, Ms. Mooney," Oswald replied, sounding unusually confident before his employer, "Absolutely. Ms. Selton read the file and appeared extremely eager to meet with you about the artifact."

"Eager?" Fish asked, doubtfully.

Oswald's face flushed and he corrected, "Anxious...is perhaps the word I should have used. But she appeared genuine in her intention to come. Unless you feel she was not being truthful..."

"No," Fish interrupted, "If Claire wasn't coming, she would have told you. I've known that girl a long time. She's a lot of things... but not a liar."

He allowed a mask of relief to cross his features. Inwardly, he had not doubted the librarian's word and now he knew Ms. Mooney held the same confidence in the other woman's sincerity.

"Butch," she said, glancing toward the larger man at the end of the bar, "Who do we have on the guest list this evening? Anyone who will take offense if I am absent? Carmine?"

Butch Gilzean glanced down at a clip board and shook his head, "Nope, not that I see. And Don Falcone shouldn't be getting back to the city for another few days."

"Still visiting his daughter in Central City," Oswald stated in follow up to Gilzean's report.

Fish smiled, "Good. I don't want any interruptions once our guest arrives. Butch, make sure all the boys know. Oswald, you'll look after any high profile customers who happen to arrive before Ms. Selton and I..."

"Oh, but Ms. Mooney..." he interrupted, then quickly fell silent, quickly recognizing his error. The man her crew had dubbed "the Penguin" never cut Fish Mooney off while she was speaking.

Fish, however, did not appear angry, only surprised at his atypical behavior.

"Yes, Oswald?" she asked, her voice low and deceptively gentle.

Oswald shifted nervously and stammered, "I...I just... thought... since I had been the one who arranged Ms. Selton's visit... that I might... continue to be involved in... working with you on the artifact... _your_ artifact..."

Fish exchanged glances with Gilzean, who only raised his eye brows and shrugged. Oswald's mind raced to interpret those looks, hoping he had not overestimated Ms. Mooney's appreciation of his efforts. Fish liked boldness in her subordinates, but only when it suited her own ends. Would she feel the rapport Oswald established with Ms. Selton would be of ongoing value? He thought she would, but Fish knew the librarian better than her "lowly umbrella boy".

"Very well," she finally replied, "When Claire arrives, you'll be her chaperone for the evening. You'll be responsible for her when she's not with me. If she decides to break your agreement and leave before our business is done... you'll be responsible for _that_ too. Understood?"

"Yes, Ms. Mooney. Completely," Oswald replied, outwardly trembling as his employer left the bar and headed toward her office. Inwardly, he felt calm, pleased as the evenings plans fell into his favor.

"Good luck with that," Gilzean said, finishing the last of his bourbon in one quick shot, "Word of advice, Cobblepot? If things tonight get... _too hot_... just run."

Oswald frowned, "What do you mean?"

The larger man chuckled, "Hopefully, you won't find out."

* * *

The pocket watch once again ticked in Oswald's hand as the seven o'clock hour approached. Patrons were filling the club and tonight's opening act had begun playing a set of slow tempo rhythm and blues.

Normally, Oswald would be wandering between tables, ensuring the guests were being served at the standard expected at Mooney's, or managing any other tasks Fish assigned him for the evening. But now, he was standing at the far end of the bar, waiting for the librarian to make her appearance.

He should not have been nervous, but a thread of doubt was persistently intruding into his thoughts. As much as he believed Claire Selton's earlier intentions had been genuine, it was harder to predict whether or not the woman might change her mind. Gilzean's final warning on the subject had not helped ease Oswald's uncertainty.

_If things get too hot..._ he reviewed Gilzean's words, searching for the hidden meaning. Was Butch expecting the situation to get violent if Selton did not meet Ms. Mooney's expectations? The librarian had not struck him as aggressive, even in her moments of agitation during their conversation. Then again, Fish said she had known the younger woman for a long time. Could Selton be a former protege who had abandoned Fish for a life of quiet university study and a job at a library? That seemed highly improbable but Oswald knew the dangers of making uninformed assumptions.

His musings were cut off as a familiar voice greeted him from behind, "Hello, Mr. Cobblepot."

He spun on his heel to find Claire Selton standing a few feet away. The club's dim lighting and red décor complimented her auburn hair though she remained largely unassuming amidst the crowd. Her hands were clasped together over her stomach and she was subtly wringing them, the only evidence of her apprehension.

Oswald walked toward her, tugging his suit coat into its proper place.

"Ms. Selton," he said in greeting, "You're early..."

"Guess that's not fashionable in a place like this," she said blithely.

He held up a hand abjectly and smiled, "I assure you. You are most welcome here...any time..."

"That's nice to know," she said, returning his smile, "To be honest, I was kind of hoping for a drink before I met with Fish. A little liquid courage is better than none at all, right?"

Oswald gestured toward the bar and lead her to a pair of unoccupied stools. A bartender approached immediately, bypassing other waiting patrons for Fish's special guest.

"What would you care for, ma'am?" the bartender asked, glancing between Oswald and the young lady at his side.

Selton shrugged, "Um... I'm not really sure. What do you suggest?"

"May I?" Oswald asked and, when she nodded, he gave the bartender the name of a pricy vintage wine. The server provided them with two matching glasses of the red elixir. Selton tasted it gingerly and then nodded in appreciation.

"Wow," she said, "This is really good. Thanks."

Oswald raised his own glass in salute before joining her in imbibing. The band was finishing out a song on a long deep note, pausing only briefly before the lead female singer broke into the next number. The song held their attention for a few minutes before the librarian looked back at him.

"So," she said, "How long have you worked for Fish?"

"Not very long," he replied vaguely.

"Long enough though... that she trusts you with business beyond the club?" she asked.

Oswald gave one of his noncommittal shrugs, "She tasks me with some of her private business. So, yes, I suppose you could say she trusts me, to a point."

To deflect away from her question, Oswald interjected one of his own. One to which he genuinely wanted to know the answer.

"And, if I may, how do you know Ms. Mooney?" he asked, "She said she had known you for a long time."

Selton took a sip from her glass before answering, "It's a long story..."

When Oswald did not reply, waiting attentively, she amended, "It was back when I was a student of Professor Shore, before he became the curator of the Gotham history museum. I've always had a thing for languages so he brought me in on projects involving translation. He and Fish worked together a lot, before their falling out."

"Falling out?" Oswald encouraged, "Over what?"

Selton shrugged, "She finally got her hands on something he thought she shouldn't. He never told me what but it was something he thought should be in the museum for safe keeping. Fish disagreed and he refused to help her again."

"And he asked you not to help Fish either," Oswald said with certainty.

Selton nodded with a sad smile, "Yeah. But I still did. For a while."

"Why is that?" he asked.

The librarian gave him another shrewd look, "This is Gotham. Just because antiquities are _secured_ at the museum doesn't mean they can't end up in someone's private collection. At least Fish cares about the items she finds..."

Selton trailed off, a slight frown creasing her brow. Oswald studied her expression for a moment before inquiring further.

"So then why did you become such a pain?" he asked, "As _you_ put it..."

The librarian tried to appear offended but amusement at his teasing question broke through.

"Just stubborn, I guess," she replied, echoing Fish's earlier description and being frustratingly ambiguous.

Their conversation was then halted by the voice of his employer.

"Claire..." Fish Mooney called as she approached the pair, her voice melodic, "So nice to see you, my dear. It's been far too long..."

"Hi, Fish," Selton said getting to her feet, "How have you been?"

Ms. Mooney gave the young woman a brief, cordial embrace before responding.

"Oh, things are simply sublime," Fish purred, "I'm so pleased you decided to accept my request."

Oswald noticed Selton's shoulders tense even as her expression remained genial.

"Not like I could have said no," the young lady replied, "Where did you get it?"

Fish shook her head slightly and took Selton's arm, "Not here. Let's go up to my office. Oswald?"

At being addressed, Oswald moved in front of the two women, shifting patrons aside to allow passage toward the back of the club. He lead them up the back stairs and opened the door to Ms. Mooney's office with gallant flourish. After the pair passed, he closed the door firmly before joining them.

A black lacquer table had been set up to the right of Fish's desk. In the center, a red cloth was covering the focus of this hard earned meeting.

Oswald positioned himself in a nearby corner, hoping to remain an unobtrusive observer of whatever would happen next. If he displayed too much interest, Ms. Mooney may ask him to leave, which would not serve his objectives.

Fish approached the table and moved to the far side, a small smile playing across her lips.

Selton looked down at the shrouded artifact, not sharing Ms. Mooney's open pleasure. The librarian was wringing her hands making no effort to hide her nerves. In the back of his mind, Oswald again noted a sensation of increased temperature but he ignored this intuition, keeping his focus keen on visual observations.

With a quick motion, Fish removed the red cloth to reveal the artifact. She touched a switch on a tall lamp and the object's pearly surface glinted in the new light. It was an oblong stone, pale in color roughly the size of the dessert plates on which he and Ms. Selton had shared apple pie earlier that day.

The librarian frowned curiously as she looked over the stone's smooth, blank surface.

"It's beautiful," Selton said quietly, "But... different than the photo from your file. There's nothing..."

Fish retrieved something from underneath the black table. A stick match appeared in her slender fingers. Selton's face darkened as she took a step backwards.

"What are you doing?" she asked Fish, her voice shaky.

The notorious club owner struck the match and touched it to the stone. Both Oswald and the young lady gasped audibly as the pale surface began to crack and glow. Small flames licked across the artifact's face until it was engulfed. Then, as quickly as they flared, the fires went out. Dark scripted writing emerged in the afterglow.

Fish's hard eyes were fixed on Selton as the young woman returned to her original position in front of the artifact. The librarian appeared stunned, but fear gave way to wonder. She glanced up at Fish, speechless, then looked back down at the mysterious script.

"Now..." Fish said slowly, "You can see why I wanted _you_ to see my new treasure."

Selton nodded, taking a few long breaths before responding, "Yeah. Right."

"Can you read it?" Fish asked.

Selton nodded again, "I think so. The runes... the writing... I think I know it. But, I'll need some time..."

"Of course," Fish said, replacing the match box and removing a pen and paper in its place, "Do what you can. My office is at your disposal for the evening."

The librarian took the offered supplies and sighed.

"You know..." she began, looking at Fish gravely, "This really should be given to Professor Shore. It's could be... _unhealthy_ to keep around your..."

Fish held up one finger and moved it quickly back and forth, making a "tsk tsk" sound.

"Please, darling," she replied, "Don't spoil our evening with a pointless lecture. I'm aware of the risks, as you well know. Do you really think the dear Professor could keep it as safe as I can?"

Selton did not answer, but glanced awkwardly toward Oswald as his employer echoed the librarian's earlier sentiment about museum security.

"Good," Fish responded in her stead, "I'm glad we agree on that. Now, Mr. Cobblepot will remain here with you until you've completed the transcription. Afterward, you're welcome to enjoy anything my establishment can offer with my compliments. Oswald, have Butch come here to secure the artifact once Ms. Selton is finished. How long do you expect a full translation would take?"

"I'm not sure," the librarian replied, "Give me three days. I may need to pull on the museum's resources."

Fish tilted her head warily, "I trust this project will remain _discreet?"_

"I won't tell the Professor, if that's what you mean," Selton assured flatly, "I'm not interested in kicking that old hornet's nest"

With a renewed smile, Fish replied, "Excellent. I'll leave you to it then."

"You still haven't answered my first question," Selton added, " _Where_ did you get it?"

"From...a friend," was the only answer Fish offered before she left the room.


	4. Bullock's Bad Day

Harvey Bullock removed his hat and rubbed his left temple as he walked toward Captain Essen's office. The central hub of Gotham City's police force was bustling with activity. Cops, criminals and everyone in between seemed to be moving among the crowd of desks. No one bothered the detective. Bullock was irritable on his best days and this was not one of those.

His head throbbed, a reminder of the whiskey bottle he had emptied last night. And now the Captain had called him to her office. He had not even gotten a chance to get a cup of coffee, or rather the dark sludge the GCPD called 'coffee'.

When he reached Essen's door, Bullock rapped one knuckle against the glass. He could seen Essen stooped over the papers on her desk. She raised her head at the knock and gestured for him to come inside.

"Morning, Cap," Bullock said. He tried to put some feeling behind the greeting but Essen's critical glare told him it had not worked.

"Harvey," Essen said, then shook her head and looked back down at her desk, "Rough night?"

"Nah...good night," he replied with a cynical grin, "Rough morning..."

"It's about to get rougher," the Captain said ominously, plucking a form from her desk and holding it out in his direction.

Bullock cringed, "Terrific." He took the paper from her hand and gave it a quick read. The pulsing pain behind his eyes made it an nigh on Herculean effort.

The hastily prepared report was about two male bodies found in Gotham Subway overnight. City maintenance had stumbled across the crime scene when looking into reports of clogged drains causing a sewer backup in the tunnels. Bullock had been doing his job for a long time and could easily imagine what the 'clog' had been washing over commuters' shoes.

"This says Major Crimes got called to the scene last night," he said with annoyance, "Why's it ending up in our laps?"

"Not as major a crime as they first thought," Essen replied, voice edged with her own displeasure, "The bodies are already with the medical examiner. Nygma sent up the pictures from the subway."

She gestured toward a short stack of photos on the corner of her desk. Bullock grabbed them and grudgingly sorted through the evidence. The bodies had each been mutilated with carved markings down their spines.

"What's with the love note the perps left?" he asked, "Gang signs?"

Essen shook her head, "Not that anyone could identify. Definitely seems ritualistic but doesn't match anything in our records so far."

Bullock grunted agreement and said, "Ritualistic, huh? I hate that word."

"I can give the case to another team," Essen offered, aware of Bullock's past experiences with this sort of investigation.

"You sayin' you've got something better?" Bullock asked with profession levels of sarcasm, "Nah, I got this. I can run the markings by one of my contacts, see if I get a hit. I'll let you know what I find."

Bullock turned to leave but paused when the Captain spoke again.

"Harvey..." Essen said, folding her hands as if in prayer, "There's...something else."

Bullock sighed unhappily and waited for the bad news. Essen only used that particular tone when she had bad news.

"Central's sending us a new detective," she explained, "He'll be transferred over in about a week. I'm assigning him as your new partner."

"You're gonna pair some fresh faced newbie up with me, huh?" Bullock asked, "What'd he do? Piss off someone important?"

Essen gave him a disapproving frown, "It was going to happen sooner or later, Harvey. I can't have a one man homicide team. Not with murder cases like that one turning up more often. Can you, please, try not to scare your next partner away so quickly?"

Bullock put his head back on his head and gave her a cocky grin before heading out.

"I promise _nothing._ "

* * *

Bullock made his way across town later that afternoon, parked behind a large stone building and walked through the back entrance to Gotham's Natural History Museum. He flashed his badge at the bored looking security guard who waved him by without a second glance.

His migraine had mostly faded, thanks to some intense caffeination, though it did little to improve his mood. Essen was going to shackle him to a new partner. He would have rather been ordered to spend some time in an old Arkham straight jacket than deal with another trumped up beat cop in a new suit.

He walked down a long, narrow hall, his foot steps breaking the unnatural quiet. The noise of Gotham's perpetual traffic could not seep through the old stone walls. Wooden doors with narrow window ran down both sides of his path. Only one appeared to be occupied if the light coming from the room beyond was any indication.

Bullock had been hoping to find old Professor Shore in his office, which was located behind the last entrance at the end of the hall. The curator was Gotham's most renowned linguist and helped the GCPD on investigations when he skills were needed. But no light was visible behind the pane of ornate stained glass crowning the door.

Rather than try the dark office, Bullock opened the door to the only lit room, hoping to find someone who could tell him where the curator was.

"Hello?" he called into a maze of dusty shelves. Someone came around a nearby corner and Bullock found a familiar face.

"Oh... hey, Harvey," Claire Selton said with a grin. She was wearing a pair of reading glasses pulled down low on her nose and an oversized button down sweater. Bullock could not help but be amused. The young woman looked like an old bitty in training.

"Hey, kid," he said, returning her greeting, "Didn't expect to find you here this time of day. Shouldn't you be downtown dusting off periodicals or something?"

"Playing hooky," she admitted, "Had some things I needed to work on here..."

Bullock shook his head reproachfully, "So you're skipping work to do other work? I gotta say, I'm a little disappointed in you, Claire."

The wayward librarian rolled her eyes and turned to head back to her studies. Bullock followed.

"What brings you down here?" Claire asked, taking a seat at a desk littered with open tomes and hand written notes.

"Looking for the Professor," the detective replied, "He around?"

"Nope," she said with a shake of her head, "Board meetings. Doubt he'll be back today either. When the board starts talking money, it's never a quick conversation."

"Damn," Bullock said, taking off his hat to scratch at his scalp.

Claire frowned curiously, "Is it about a case?"

"Yeah. A homicide," he said, "The bodies were marked with some kind of lettering. I was hope the Professor could recognize it..."

"What kind of lettering?" she asked, her interest peaked.

Bullock hesitated, regarding the young woman for a moment before taking the crime scene photos from his coat pocket. The idea of showing Claire pictures of the homicide made him feel a bit like a creepy uncle. But, in lieu of Professor Shore, she was the best bet at getting his first lead on the bizarre murder.

Besides, he knew what Claire had been through as a kid. A little gore and guts did not come close to what she had experienced before the Arkham incident. It had been more than 10 years ago, but memories of that day still haunted Bullock in some dark and sober moments.

"Hard to say what kind. Just a heads up, it's pretty gruesome," he said, handing her the pictures.

Claire took the evidence from his hand and spread each one out in a row. Her brow creased with thought as she looked over the bloody markings. After only a short time, she sat back and expressed her findings succinctly.

"Uh oh."

Bullock frowned with dismay, "What? What do ya mean 'uh oh'? I don't like 'uh oh'."

Claire looked up at him over her spectacles, "I've seen these runes before..."

The detective had many years of experience questioning criminals and the sudden guilt on her face was clear as a Metropolis day.

" _Claire_ ," he chided, "Where have you see them before?

The young woman bit her lower lip and pulled a piece of paper from a pile of notes. It was letter head with a recognizable logo of red bones. The paper had been filled with lines of symbols, many that matched what had been found on the mutilated bodies.

"At Fish Mooney's club," she said sheepishly, "Three days ago."

Bullock squeezed the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger with a long, weary sigh. He was very tempted to break out the flask from his inner pocket and make his way back to bed.

"And, why... pray tell... were you at Mooney's?" he asked, pacing his words in an effort to keep his cool.

Claire took the glasses from her face as she explained, "Fish asked me to take a look at a new addition to her collection. An old stone. The runes on the stone are the same language as in your pictures. Look..."

The librarian pulled an open book to the center of the desk and pointed at an old diagram.

"See?" she said, "According to this, the stone is one of twelve. That's why I decided to go and meet with Fish. I recognized it. I had to find out more about it. It matches the one... the one from Arkham..."

Bullock finally began to understand Claire's new found interest in associating with Fish Mooney. His disapproving glare softened as she continued to speak.

"I had to..." Claire said, hands closing into fists, "I had to... at least... try to understand what it said."

"And what've you found?" the detective asked carefully.

"Well," she began after taking a deep breath, "That's where my 'uh oh' comes in. Considering the wounds on your victims, I _think_ these stones could be in blood rites. Used for invoking... _things..._ "

The word 'ritualistic' echoed in his mind as he asked, "Do I want to know what kinds of _things_?"

Claire shrugged anxiously, "Oh... sort of... _demony_ _things..._ "

"Demony," Bullock mimicked with a nod, "Of course. Can't imagine 'blood rites' would be used to _invoke_ nice things."

The young woman's expression shifted from guilt to apprehension.

"We've gotta warn Fish," Claire said with urgency, "What if whoever killed those men is looking for that stone? She wouldn't say where she got it from. What if the killers want it back?"

Bullock nodded and glanced at his watch, "The club'll be open in about two hours. I'll go try and find her before people start showing up."

Claire got to her feet and grabbed her coat from the back of her chair.

"I'm coming with you," she said, gathering a quick pile of her notes for the road.

"Oh, really?" Bullock said with annoyance, "No way..."

"Okay, fine," she replied stubbornly, "Then tell me how to plan to explain all this to Fish."

"Tell her some nut jobs are practicing their crazy demon writing on dead people and she may have one of their rock collection," Bullock shot back, aggravated, then pointed a finger at her and added, "That made a lot more sense in my head."

"I was supposed to meet up with her again tonight anyway," Claire explained, "If she doesn't listen to you, maybe she'll listen to me. The last things she'll want are those nut jobs crashing in on her customers."

"Alright, alright," Bullock said, "Let's go. You're a worse nag than my grandmother... who wants her sweater back, by the way..."

Claire grinned and gave the detective a quick punch on the arm as she followed him out into the hall.


	5. Change of Plans

Oswald removed a small red shade from one of the many decorative lamps adorning the tables in Mooney's club. He was checking each to ensure the candles within had enough wax to last through the evening. Finding one nearly spent, he plucked it out and replaced it from a box under his arm.

The task was menial but that did not mean he was being unproductive. He valued the quiet time to think, reviewing any new information he had acquired over the course of the day, planning how it could be used to his advantage. His time working with Fish Mooney was taxing, far below his dignity. But he was patient. He was waiting, waiting for a catalyst. Some piece of information or event that would allow him to dislodge Mooney or one of her associates from their positions in Gotham, opening up the next step in his ambitions.

As it happened out, this night may turn out very fruitfully in his favor. Don Carmine Falcone had returned to the city and was planning on joining Fish for dinner at her club. Oswald had little interest in Falcone's familial visit to Central City. However, when the Don was away, the city would slip ever slightly toward the sinister, opening up cracks in the foundation the mobster had built over his many years as a power player in Gotham. The right push here or chip of information there could turn a small crack into a crater, a power vacuum waiting for the right person to fill it.

Oswald had all but forgotten the events from three nights previous in Falcone's wake. The curiosities stemming from Fish's engraved antique were insignificant compared to what could come from Falcone's anticipated repast. He intended to remain by Fish's side for the evening as her loyal and demure servant. He would listen... and he would gain.

Therefore, when Oswald heard the front entrance to the club open, he had been unprepared for the reappearance of the librarian and her GCPD escort. He placed the box of candles on the table and hastily moved toward the new arrivals.

"Ms. Selton," he said, then with confusion added the second greeting, "Detective Bullock. Hello."

"Yeah, hi, um..." Bullock said, snapping his fingers in thought.

"Oswald, sir" he assisted the detective's recall.

"Right, Oswald," Bullock said, not sounding like he would retain the young man's name, "We're lookin' for Fish. She around?"

Oswald glanced between the pair, confusion shifting to sudden and intense indignation. The librarian had betrayed them. She had wanted Ms. Mooney to turn the stone in to the authorities. She must have contacted the police during her three day window, planning to forcibly remove the object from his employer's possession. His face remained impassive in all but his eyes, which glinted with anger.

"Yes, of course, Detective," he responded gesturing toward the rear stairs, "She...she's in her office. Would you like me to see if she's available?"

"No need," Bullock said curtly, before turning toward Ms. Selton, "Stay here. If it looks like I'll need your help, I'll let you know,"

Selton nodded, hands wrung together. The detective shoved by the younger man and headed off to find Fish. When he was out of sight, Oswald whirled on the librarian, jaw clenched in fury.

" _What did you do?_ " he hissed. His unexpected ire startled the librarian and she took a step backward.

"Nothing," she said quickly, too surprised to add anything more.

Oswald jerked his arm backward, pointing an accusatory finger in the direction of Fish's office.

" _You brought the police_ ," he said, "That is hardly _nothing_."

"Oh," she replied, finally grasping the source of his reproach. She held up a defensive hand, "It's not what you think..."

" _What I think_..." he interrupted viciously, "... is you have done _nothing_ but betray our trust. I imagine you began planning this intrusion as soon as you had the information you wanted about the artifact. You said yourself it did not belong in Ms. Mooney's hands. I suppose your dear Professor played a part in enlisting the GCPD to..."

" _Hey!_ " Selton shouted back at him, a blast of heat rolling through the space between them. The combination of her tone and the odd rise in temperature cut off Oswald's diatribe.

Selton closed her eyes, took a deep breath and added, " _Just...back off._ If you'd give me a minute to explain, you might understand why the detective is here too."

Oswald folded his arms, jaw set firmly in an expression of doubt. He watched suspiciously as Selton removed a stack of photos from her pocket. She leafed through, pulled one aside and handed it to him. Oswald pulled it from her grasp, then jerked in shock when he looked at the gory sight. He blinked with confusion and gaped at her.

"It was a murder," she explained, "Harvey came by the museum while I was working because he wanted the Professor to identify the symbols on the bodies. He found me instead and..."

Selton shook her head, seeming to struggle with her next words, "...the markings on those people are the same as what we found on Ms. Mooney's stone."

Oswald held the picture by the corner, as if the photographed blood might leak, and passed it back to her. His mind was trying to process this new data while also trying to get the distasteful image from his memory.

"And you both came to the club..." he said with comprehension, "... because you are concerned the killers may be searching for the artifact."

Selton looked relieved he was beginning to understand her motives, "Yeah, that was the thought. Artifacts like that stone are sought by cults or other wackos who want to use them in ceremonies. The symbols are very ancient runes, noted in historical texts but their origins never seem to be recorded."

Oswald nodded acknowledgment, but inwardly he was not as concerned about 'wackos' as much as how the detective's presence would affect this evening's plans with Don Falcone. Mooney's place was more heavily guarded than most banks in Gotham, doubly that when Falcone was on site. He doubted such lunatics would have the proficiency needed to invade the premises with intentions to steal the stone.

"Harvey's hoping he can convince Fish to shut down operations until the killers are found," the librarian added.

Oswald's eyes widened with alarm, "No. She wouldn't do that. She _can't_..."

"It's for her own safety, Oswald," Selton said, then added, "And yours. And Butch's. And everyone else who might be here if the killers show up."

Oswald ground his teeth and shook his head resolutely, "They would be fools if they tried to overrun Mooney's men. Business must go on as scheduled. The club won't be closed."

"But, Oswald..." she began but he held up a halting hand and spoke again with finality.

" _Absolutely not._ "

* * *

" _Absolutely not_ ," Fish Mooney echoed her employee's opinion.

Bullock stood before her ornate desk, hands on his hips, as Fish declined his proposal. He sighed heavily at the woman's stubborn refusal.

"Fish..." he said slowly, "You know I wouldn't be here if this was an ordinary homicide. You're the one who brought in Claire to translate your new toy. You wouldn't have done that if you didn't think that stone was worth a small fortune."

Fish's hard eyes did not waver, "Harvey, while I certainly value your devotion to my well being,

I have no intention of allowing some crazy low-lifes to disrupt my business."

"Then at least move the damn thing," Bullock shot back with frustration, "Whoever you bought it from will know how to find your club so the killers'll could know too. Get it somewhere safer until..."

"There is nowhere safer," Fish replied coolly, aiming a sharped finger nail toward him, "You know that. And there's nothing you've told me that says the same killers would target me, despite the similarities of the symbols. Some one would have better luck stealing the mayor's gilded panties than getting into my club without permission."

"Then give me an invite," Bullock suggested, leaning forward with his hands on her desk, "Me and Claire. Just until these nut jobs show their faces again and I can get them locked up or dead."

Fish tilted her head, looking amused, "You... want me... to let you run a stake out from my nightclub?"

Bullock shrugged, "I've done stranger things in than that under your roof."

Fish laughed out loud, her eyes twinkling at the jaded detective with a shadow of affection. She rose from her desk and walked around to face him, tugging flirtatiously on the lapels of his coat.

"Alright," she said, smiling, then ran her tongue over her ridges of her top teeth thoughtfully, "Just one thing, however. Don Falcone will be joining me for dinner tonight. If you and Claire insist on being here, I ask for... discretion. I'll tell the boys to expect you, but, please, don't be conspicuous."

Bullock took one of her slender hands and kissed it, "Anything for you, Fish."


	6. Chess and Other Games

Afternoon faded into evening and the previously quiet club began to fill with its usual patrons. The men were all sharply dressed, shoes shining below crisply pressed trousers and silk ties knotted expertly. The women were all beautiful, alluring and sparkling in their expensive dresses and jewelry.

Oswald had changed from his suit into a green-lapel, black tuxedo, his bow tie exchanged for a stylish continental cross. He prided himself on the sophistication of his clothing and it would never due to wear anything else than a dinner tux for nightly duties.

Consequently, his chagrin at the appearance of Bullock and the librarian was more than justifiable. The detective was still in the same battered coat and fedora as earlier in the day. Selton, at least, was wearing a clean blouse in a lovely blue tone. That did not excuse, however, her denim leg wear. _Denim._ In Fish Mooney's night club. It was almost too much to stomach.

With a fortifying breath, Oswald went to greet the pair for the second time that day.

"Good evening, Detective... Ms. Selton," he announced stiffly, "Ms. Mooney has been expecting you."

"Thanks, Osgood," Bullock said, passing the shorter man his coat and hat.

"Oswald," Ms. Selton corrected the ruffian. She gave Oswald an apologetic look and smiled, "Nice to see you again."

He gave her a polite nod in return and gestured toward a corner table, "Please... follow me."

As they walked, Oswald dumped Bullock's outwear into the waiting hands of a server and jerked his head back to the coat room. It took every bit of his self-control not to appear offended by the detective's dismissive and rude behavior. When they reached a plush corner booth, he paused at his employer's side.

"Harvey!" Fish exclaimed dramatically, sounding as if she had not seen the detective in years rather than only a few hours, "How are you, darling?"

She embraced him and placed a demure kiss on his cheek. Fish then shifted her attention to Ms. Selton and took the young woman's hands affectionately.

"And Claire... _always_ a pleasure to be in your company," Fish said, then looked the librarian up and down critically, "Though... do you own _anything_ that doesn't make you look like a country bumpkin?"

Oswald looked surprised as his employer's words, but the tone had been teasing and Ms. Selton only smiled in return.

"I _am_ a country bumpkin, Fish," she replied amicably, "Not even a decade in Gotham can change that, I guess."

" _Well_... _"_ Fish said with a wink, "...that doesn't stop us from trying."

Now that the pleasantries were complete, a subtle change rippled over Ms. Mooney's face. Oswald recognized the alteration in mood immediately as his employer returned her focus to tonight's special dinner guest.

"Oswald..." she purred, "Please show our guests to their table."

"No thanks," Bullock said before the younger man could act, "I'll be at the bar. If your boys see anybody that shouldn't be here, that's where I'll be."

Fish seemed pleased by this plan and nodded before the detective walked away in search of comestibles. It made sense. Everyone who worked under Falcone knew of Bullock's drinking habits so his presence at the bar would not be questioned.

Before Oswald could escort the librarian to her assigned seat, Ms. Mooney gave the young woman an appraising look.

"Claire?" she cooed gently, "Do you still play chess?"

"I guess," Selton replied with a shrug, "Why? Did you want to play a round?"

"Oh, no," Fish answered quickly, shaking her head so vigorously that her long earrings whipped against her face, "No, no. But Oswald here is very skilled in that arena. I'll have him fetch the board once you're settled."

Oswald looked at Ms. Mooney sharply but only offered Ms. Selton a genial smile in response.

"Okay, sure," Selton said, turning to the young man and adding, "I'm going to check on Harvey and then I'll come find you at the table."

"Of course, fine," Oswald replied, trying not to sound annoyed. He watched the young woman walk away as Fish leaned toward him to speak.

"Take the chess set from my office," she instructed, any trace of good humor gone, "Keep her occupied while I'm entertaining Don Falcone..."

Oswald looked abashed and interrupted, "But, Ms. Mooney, I..."

Fish put one long finger in front of his face and twitched it back and forth, making the disapproving 'tsk tsk'. She would not tolerate any contradiction to her instructions on this night. Oswald was unable to keep irritation off his face at this new obstacle to his plans.

"Don't pout, my boy," Fish chided, giving his chin a firm pinch, "It doesn't suit you."

With effort, Oswald gave her a compliant smile and nodded. He walked around the table to retrieve the game, fists clenched angrily at his sides.

* * *

As her disgruntled 'umbrella boy' moved away, Butch Gilzean walked up to the vacant spot. Butch had been by her side the longest of any of her allies. She had known him nearly as many years as she had known Harvey Bullock but the similarities in her relationships with the men ended there. Despite Harvey's apathetic attitude toward Fish's less than legal business dealings, he was still GCPD and his loyalties were not solely to her. Butch, on the other hand, was completely devoted. They had never been lovers though, in many ways, they were closer than that. Which is why she spoke to him without masking her true emotions.

"You sure this is a good idea, boss?" Butch asked skeptically.

Fish glanced up at him with one raised eye brow, "You got a better one?"

Butch chuckled, "You really think Bullock's story is legit? I mean, Gotham's got crazy. But who'd be crazy enough to bust in here looking for some rock?"

Fish shrugged, noncommittally, "Who knows. But the girl seems to agree there might be trouble and she wouldn't have an pretenses to lie about such things. She knows more about my new treasure than what she's shared with Harvey... I guarantee it."

"Yeah..." Butch replied simply before adding, "And what happens if something does go down and things... get hot? What'd'ya want me to do then?"

She shrugged again but her eyes belied her casual tone, "Whatever you do... don't try and shoot her. That wouldn't work..."

* * *

A short time later, Oswald Cobblepot sat across the table from Claire Selton, a chess board positioned between them. They had begun their first match but he was not really paying attention to the moves. He was watching the pawns in the club rather than the ones on the table, waiting for a sign that Don Falcone had arrived.

This was the real game and Gotham was prize. Fish... Falcone... even the GCPD and the mayor had a part to play and no one... _no one_... was going to stop him from...

"Check mate."

Oswald jumped slightly at the sound of the librarian's voice.

"I'm sorry, what?" he asked. Selton smiled patiently and pointed down at the chess board.

"Check mate," she repeated, taking a sip of red wine as Oswald looked over the pieces.

_Check mate?,_ he thought. That could not be right. Surely the young woman was mistaken. As he assessed the situation, he realized she was correct. This defeat, no matter how minor, stung his pride. He ground his teeth in annoyance.

"Wasn't really fair though," Selton went on, leaning her chin in her hand, "Since my challenger was a million miles away."

"Apologies," Oswald replied, forcing a smile, "It's true. I'm... distracted. Helping manage the club can be quite demanding."

Selton nodded, "I bet. And it doesn't help that your stuck baby-sitting, huh?"

Oswald shook his head, wanting to eschew her statement, but the librarian spoke first.

"Look, I get it," she said, "Fish doesn't want us here. She's got _business_ and that didn't include me and Bullock crashing the party. I am glad though... that she let us stay. Just in case. I'd hate to see you or her or anyone here end up in the next round of GCPD forensic photos."

Oswald looked at her skeptically as he reset the chess pieces to their home squares.

"Detective Bullock doesn't exactly seem the hero type," he said, his mood letting the unintentional quip slip out.

Selton laughed, "You might be surprised."

His doubtful expression did not change as he set the final rook in place.

"Your move," he said, taking a moment to glance around the club as the young woman began the new round.

"What did you mean..." he asked as he took his turn, "When you told Ms. Mooney you were a 'country bumpkin'?"

"I'm from the mid-west," Selton replied, moving her next piece, "Little town a few hours south of Central City."

Oswald thought for a moment before shifting one of his bishops and continuing his inquiries.

"And, what brought you to Gotham?" he asked, not really interested in the answer. He was trying to appear engaged in their exchange. At least paying enough attention not to lose another game.

Selton took a larger drink from her glass before answering, "College. Once I started working with Professor Shore, I decided to stay."

He watched her slide another pawn forward with a slight frown. Her answer seemed honest but a gut feeling gave him a sense of falsehood. He made his third move.

"I suppose Gotham has more to offer than some small town," he said. Again, he took note of the odd, pensive expression that crossed her features.

Selton nodded and took her turn, "It does. In a lot of ways. Though it gets kind of claustrophobic sometimes. I don't always do great with crowds."

Oswald nodded, feigning understanding, and made his last move.

"Check mate," he said with satisfaction.

"You're kidding?" she replied. Confirming the results, she shook her head and laughed, "We barely got started."

Oswald shrugged, looking pleased. The librarian gave him a long appraising look.

"Okay, Cobblepot," Selton said with a mischievous grin, "Okay. No more chit chat. Best out of three. No distractions."

For the first time tonight, Ms. Selton actually had his full attention. The challenge in her tone was intriguing and thoughts of Fish Mooney and Don Falcone left center stage in his mind.

"No distractions," he agreed and initiated their final match.

The game flowed more fluidly this time around. The opponents made the moves and counter-moves one might expect from experienced chess players. An hour passed before their game play slowed to a crawl.

It was Oswald's turn and he was tapping his fingers restlessly against the table. His brow was creased as he examined the board. The librarian was good, he had to admit. She seemed familiar with attack patterns used by renowned chess masters but she did not use one technique exclusively. Her moves were erratic, occasionally sacrificing pieces without serving any particular plan. After a time, he shifted his queen just two squares to the right and sat back, smug confidence replacing his consternation.

Selton had her hands folded demurely as she waited for her partner's choice. She tilted her head in thought, and then moved her own queen in a way that mirrored what Oswald had done.

He frowned, aggravated that she had not responded as he expected, and moved the queen again. Selton in turn moved a knight backwards, an action that put it directly in the cross hairs of his right hand bishop. He assessed what would happen if he took the knight and could see no reason what consequence it would have, either in his favor or Selton's.

He moved, and she countered, time and again until Oswald's frustration erupted. He slammed both fists against the table. The clatter caught the attention of some nearby patrons, who smartly ignored the noise caused by one of Fish Mooney's men.

" _What are you doing?_ " he demanded, glaring at Selton.

The librarian smiled innocently, "Playing chess."

Oswald gritted his teeth, "But _what are you doing?_ Your moves... they don't make any sense. Why sacrifice the knight when it was in position to clear two pawns who could threaten your king? Why move your queen to attack the king but then block with one of your own pawns? It's like... _it's like..._ "

Then, it hit him and he stared at her in shock.

"It's like you're not playing to win," he said, perplexed.

Selton simply raised her eye brows knowingly and waited. Oswald examined the board again, reviewing each move of the round before a new realization dawned.

"You...you're playing toward a draw," he concluded. Her wide, amused smile confirmed his deduction.

Selton bit her lip guiltily, "Now you know why Fish didn't want to play against me. She never did figure out the method to my madness. Well done."

Her simple compliment gratified his ego more deeply than he would have admitted. And her technique told him much more about the curious young woman than his line of questions.

"But...why?" he asked.

"Sometimes the game is more fun than a victory," she replied, then added with a grin, "Or maybe I just like ticking people off."

Oswald laughed with real levity, "Another one of your talents, certainly."

"So?" she asked, "Shall we call it a draw?"

"A truce," he agreed, "For now. I believe the main dinner courses should now be available if you are interested."

"I'm always interested in food," Selton admitted and Oswald called to a nearby waiter.

As he requested tonight's menu, he noticed the club patrons begin to grow quieter, looking away from the stage toward the front of the hall. Oswald felt his shoulders tense as his original intention for the evening flooded back into his thoughts.

Don Falcone had arrived. He came through the club with a small entourage. Fish Mooney intercepted him, exchanged the typical superficial affections and took his arm to lead him to their table.

"You okay?" Selton asked.

"Just fine," he lied, then added a truth, "A special guest has arrived. If you could excuse me a few minutes, I'd like to double check that his needs are being sufficiently served."

"Do what you gotta do, Oswald," Selton said, "I think there's an order of Marsala Chicken that will soon be serving my own needs."

Oswald nodded appreciatively and stood. He told the waiter to bring Ms. Selton anything she requests before moving discreetly to the aisle behind the main hall. Though his role to look after the librarian had turned out to be more pleasant than expected, it did nothing to forward his plans. He moved quickly to get in ear shot of Ms. Mooney's table, stood in a darkened corner and waited to see what he could hear.


	7. Thicker than Water

Fish Mooney took a sip of her red, dry wine and smiled pleasantly at Don Carmine Falcone. The older man was eating his meal with small, paced bites, as if he were savoring something special. He could afford to eat quite luxuriously every hour if that was what he chose. But, as the years had passed, Fish had noted the old man seemed to be more mindful of such things. Appreciating what he had at present, rather than planning for what he might have in the future.

Few others would have been able to notice such a change. But Fish noticed everything. Always had. Don Falcone had been changing subtly in the past few years in ways only those closest to him would have ever perceived. To Fish, the changes did not feel so much like growth as they did decline. Wearing. Weakness. The attributes she could neither understand nor tolerate. As Carmine ebbed, so might she.

"The Arkham deal is going forward as planned," Falcone said, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, "Wayne Enterprises had given us their full support."

Fish nodded her head cordially, "I'm glad to hear. With Maroni trying to pull strings with the city counsel, it's good to know you and Wayne Board are on the same page."

"The board, yes," he replied, "It was Thomas and Martha Wayne that took convincing. Fortunately, their philanthropy is now focused on treatment of the mentally ill. The idea of razing the old hospital in favor of new construction suited their ideals. Compared to the proposal backed by Maroni for another city dump, their overtures appear divinely inspired. No one with a public face to uphold will side with Maroni if they want re-elected."

"So much new construction would be most beneficial for your interests, Carmine," she replied, folding her slender fingers together and looking at him curiously, "But why raze the old asylum? Seems like an unneeded expense..."

"The Wayne's insisted on that point," he explained, "They felt the city has too many bad memories tied to Arkham. It's been an empty shell for ten years, then before that the riots and the fires. Better to start fresh."

As Falcone spoke about Arkham's history, Fish glanced toward the table where her younger guest sat playing chess, and then quickly returned her attention to the Don.

"And what do you think of this arrangement?" Falcone asked. The Don's face was benign and impassive as ever, waiting patiently as she considered his question. An observer unfamiliar with Gotham's underbelly may have thought he was a father addressing his daughter. That was Falcone's way. Those working under his umbrella of influence were 'family' and treated as such... unless something tainted the relationship.

"It's a bit out of my expertise," Fish replied innocently, "I know the theater district and Amusement Mile..."

"But Arkham borders your territory," he went on, "You'll be sharing space with Wayne Enterprises charitable work."

Fish spread her hands in a gesture of consent, "Even angels need entertainment. The theater district caters to both rich and poor so the plan seems beneficial for all parties. Except Maroni."

Falcone smiled, "I'm pleased you approve."

Tactfully changing topics, Fish returned her patron's warm expression.

"Tell me, how is Sofia?" she asked, inquiring after Falcone's recent visit with his daughter.

"Very well," he replied simply, his serene face only giving the barest hint of unrest.

Fish took note of this and quickly moved on to other topics related to her business standings. The dinner had gone well, she had learned much and did not want to sour the evening.

* * *

In a nearby corner, Oswald Cobblepot was also learning much from the conversation. He knew time was limited and his absence from Claire Selton's side would be noted if he lingered too long. But the information flowing out of the plush corner booth was too enticing to give up just now.

As Fish made mention of Falcone's daughter, a heavy hand fell upon Oswald's shoulder. He jumped and turned to find Butch Gilzean inspecting him critically.

"Hey, kid," he said in an amicable tone that did not match his hard eyes, "Aren't you supposed to be playing chess with that librarian?"

Oswald stammered a moment, giving Butch a quick, guilty grin, "Sorry, Mr. Gilzean. I... I just needed to make use of the facilities. Nature calls and all."

"Right," Butch said, unconvinced, then jerked his head toward the restrooms, "Do what you gotta do and get back to your position."

"Yes, sir," he said, feigning excessive nerves, "Right away, sir."

Before Oswald could move, however, he saw the larger man frown, staring at the wall against which the 'umbrella boy' stood.

"What the hell?" Butch said aloud and jerked his hand over Oswald's right shoulder. Initially, he thought Gilzean was making a motion to strike him and he flinched away. Then, the other man pulled his hand back and stared at it.

It took Oswald a moment in the dim light to realize Butch's fingertips were smeared with a red stain.

Turning around, he found the source of Butch's distraction and discoloration. Upon the wall, slightly above where Oswald's head had been, was a symbol. The writing was formed by a dripping red substance that seemed to be seeping from underneath the gold tinted wall paper. Oswald gaped at the hideous mark, feeling his skin crawl as he realized how close he had been to coming in contact with the coagulating ooze.

He turned back toward Butch, who stared up from his fingers and shared the younger man's expression of disgust.

"Oh my god," Butch breathed softly, "I think that's blood."

Oswald stammered again, utterly at a loss for words at this new discovery. Fortunately for him and the surrounding patrons, Butch was not so easily rattled.

"Go and get one of the tall barricades from the back room," Butch ordered in a low voice, "The folded ones to the left..."

"What... why... but..." Oswald could only reply. Butch gripped the shorter man's shoulder and shoved him toward a nearby service entrance.

" _Go_ ," he hissed, "Bring the barricade. We gotta keep people outta this area. _Go!_ "

Oswald nodded and moved off to the back of the club, visions of Bullock's forensic photos dancing before his eyes.

* * *

Harvey Bullock knocked back the last of the scotch in his glass and sighed. He had been anchored at the bar since he and Claire arrived, the night club's guests streaming passed him in an endless river of booze.

This usually would not be a bad way to spend the evening. Fish's place had only high end stock and the bartender had apparently been told Bullock's drinks were on the house. However, as the minutes turned to hours and the alcohol began to work its magic, he could not help but feel he was wasting his time. His gut still told him this was the right place to be, but his increasingly inebriated mind was doubtful.

Bullock spun on his stool and got to his feet. If he was going to wait out this half-witted plan, he was not going to do it on an empty stomach.

He wandered into the club's main hall and moved toward the table occupied by his studious accomplice. When he found her alone, Bullock took the side of the booth formerly occupied by Cobblepot and frowned.

"Where'd your buddy end up going to?" he asked, waving down a nearby waiter. He shoved the chess board aside and set his fedora on top.

Claire shrugged, looking as bored as he felt, "I have no idea. But, at least the food is good."

"Priorities," Bullock said approvingly, then asked, "Notice anything out of the ordinary?"

"Nope," she answered, "Though I'm pretty sure some of the high heels the dancers are wearing were forged in hell. How do they even stand?"

Bullock chuckled and glanced backward toward the stage. The headliner had began, a sweet jazzy trio who had the place swinging. Motion at Fish Mooney's table caught Harvey's attention.

Don Falcone had stood, Fish at his side, and was putting on his coat. Reading Fish's expression, it looked like the dinner had gone well. Bullock sat back slightly, trying to remain out of side, as the mob boss and his escorts made their way to the club's exit.

He glanced back again to look at Fish and noticed Butch Gilzean whispering something in her ear. The hard eyed night club owner jerked her head toward Gilzean sharply and appeared startled. The large man motioned toward the left side of the stage and ushered Fish in that direction.

"Uh oh," Bullock said aloud.

"What?" Claire asked, "What is it?"

Before he could continue, Fish Mooney herself walked the short stair up to the stage. The jazz trio quieted and the club's owner began to address the crowd.

"Ladies and gentleman," she announced, earning some light applause, "Thank you all for coming. I do apologize for the interruption but, _unfortunately_ , we are going to be closing a bit early this evening."

The milling patrons mumbled with confusion and disappointment. Fish raised her arms in supplication.

"I know, _I know_ , my loves," she said with melodic charm, "It simply _breaks my heart_ to have you all depart prematurely. However, it simply cannot be helped. I thank you all again for your kind understanding and, rest assured, each of you will be compensated for this inconvenience with welcome invitations to return another night."

A small smile came to Bullock's face as Fish spoke, glittering and glorious under the twinkling lights. Despite her toughness and hard edges, he still saw her as more than 'Fish'. He saw the woman she had been. His Maria, simple and lovely...before she had transformed herself into the goddess on that stage.

The crowd began to disperse, door bouncers escorting any slow movers firmly toward the exits. Fish approached their table, trailed on her heels by Gilzean and Cobblepot.

The matriarchal warmth she had exuded to her guests was gone, replaced by a hard, fierce smile.

"It seems..." she began pointedly, "... we have a problem."

Bullock exchanged a look with Claire, raw dread creeping into his quickly sobering mind.

* * *

"What is it?" Butch Gilzean asked, clutching the blood stained rag with which he had cleaned his fingers.

Oswald stood slightly behind Ms. Mooney's left side, watching his employer, the detective and the librarian assess the bizarre runic symbol. Bullock was closest to the wall, seemingly immune to the foul sight, examining the scene impassively.

The detective turned to the librarian and asked, "Do you know what it means?"

Ms. Selton nodded, "Blood. From what I read, that rune means blood."

Bullock sighed, sounding annoyed, "Figures. Is it the same as what you found on the stone?"

"Yeah," Selton replied, nodding again, "And it was on the two bodies from this morning."

Ms. Mooney stood with arms folded, silently fuming as her guests spoke. Oswald could almost feel his employer vibrating with anger, though her face remained even. She took one long breath and spread her hands toward the marred wall.

" _How?_ " she asked, " _How did it get there?_ "

"You got me, boss," Butch replied, "Me and Oswald were just standing here and, suddenly, the wall starts bleeding."

Fish sighed angrily and folded her arms again, dissatisfied. Selton raised her eye brows as Butch spoke and took a few steps in his direction.

"You actually saw it appear?" the librarian asked.

As she approached, Oswald noticed Butch take a quick step backward away from the young woman, giving her a wary look. The action struck him as odd and totally out of character for the larger man. Gilzean was no coward. He had taken on any number of thugs in Fish's name and kept her other employees firmly in line. What was it about the young woman that caused Butch such discomfort?

"No," Butch answered, "Not really. One minute nothing and the next... _that_."

Oswald shifted his attention back to the stained wall as Bullock spoke.

"Hey..." the detective said, motioning toward Ms. Mooney, "Take a look at this..."

Ms. Mooney moved toward Bullock and paused at his side. The detective was looking upward and directed her attention to the ceiling.

"There's a trail," Bullock explained, "It's hard to see behind the wall paper but definitely there."

"Bring more light," Mooney ordered and Oswald jumped to obey. He grabbed a nearby lamp and redirected it toward the upper part of the wall.

It appeared Bullock had been correct. Oswald swallowed nervously down his dry throat. There was a faint line of blood trailing from the ceiling and culminating at the spot where the symbol was formed. As their small group stared dumbly at this new discovery, Oswald noted a detail that made his stomach turn.

The trail of blood was not dripping downward. It was 'dripping' upward, as if it had originated from the symbol itself. Bullock must have also noticed this based on his next question.

"What's up there?" the detective asked, glancing down at Ms. Mooney, "Above this wall upstairs?"

The night club owner audibly ground her teeth and said, " _My safe_."

"Safe?" Bullock repeated with a raised eyebrow, "You wouldn't happen to be keeping a certain creepy old demon rock in that safe, would ya?"

Ms. Mooney did not reply but her disgruntled expression gave Bullock and the rest of them his answer.

The horrible rune was bleeding upward, toward Fish's mysterious, carved artifact.


	8. Hidden Beneath

Fog rolled off Gotham's northern water way, blanketing the Amusement Mile with mist. It was not raining but the air was thick and humid, almost begging for the relief precipitation might bring.

Two vehicles moved slowly down the road running between the dark waters and the back sides of the Mile's many attractions. The route was typically used for supply trucks and vendors dropping off wares to the many businesses that provided dining and entertainment to residents and summer visitors. The shadow of a Ferris wheel loomed ahead as the cars exited the Amusement area to a line of dark warehouses.

It was late and the buildings were dark. The headlights did not do much to improve forward vision but the lead car's driver was very familiar with the docks and guided the travelers easily to their destination.

Bullock watched as the tail lights of the lead car turned to the left and pulled into one of the dark warehouses. Claire sat next to him quietly, wringing her hands in her lap. This was a bad idea and they both knew it. However, when Harvey had pressed Fish about getting rid of the damned artifact, this was the only option to which she would agree.

The first vehicle parked along the right hand side wall of the warehouse and Bullock pulled in behind. He left the headlights on as he and Claire exited to join Fish and her two employees.

Fish had donned a a long leather coat with a high collar of fur. In her hands, she held a suede black bag, closed at the top with a tasseled cord. Gilzean and Cobblepot were are her sides. She glanced around the empty, echoing space... then snapped her fingers. The noise was like a gun shot through the silence. It was Gilzean who moved into action at the sound.

The large man walked into the gloom and, a moment later, they all heard the shrieking squeal of a metal door. Butch returned, a little dustier for his efforts. Fish smiled and copied his path toward the hidden chamber. The sound of high heels walking down metal steps could be heard.

Bullock glanced at Gilzean and raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

"A vault," Butch replied to the unasked question, "Don't keep much down there anymore. But it's still one of the best strongrooms in Gotham."

The detective shook his head, unsurprised, "Let's hope it keeps Fish's fun new toy quiet. Wouldn't be good for tourism if the walls around here started bleeding."

"She trusts this place," Butch said, defensively, then added, "And I guess she trusts you both too. Before tonight, nobody outside her inner circle knew about the vault."

Another squeal of metal and the clang of a closing door announced Fish's return. She stood before them, folded her arms and looked pointedly at the two outsiders.

"Satisfied?" she asked. Bullock shrugged and glanced at Claire.

The librarian looked skeptical and replied, "No."

Fish tilted her head with an irritated glare fixed on the younger woman.

"You asked," Claire said with a shrug, "And I'm a bad liar."

Bullock watched Fish's ire melt into amusement as she stepped toward Claire.

"You haven't changed at all, have you, darling?" she asked, putting an affectionate hand on the librarian's upper arm.

"Will you at least think about showing the stone to the professor?" Claire asked.

Fish sighed heavily, mocking vexation, "I'll... _think about it_. Maybe after Harvey has those killers behind bars... we can talk again."

Claire nodded and returned the other woman's smile. With a dramatic wave of her hand, Fish then gestured toward her two henchmen.

"Boys..." she purred, "Would you please take the young lady home? I think I'd like the good detective to take me back to the club..."

"Whatever you say, boss," Gilzean replied, shifting from foot to foot with poorly hidden unease.

Bullock resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the big man's discomfort. He had figured Fish's second in command knew about Claire's... issues. But was he seriously worried about it? It had been years since there had been any issues.

He felt Fish slip her arm around his and thoughts of the librarian's past left his mind. Fish might look hard as ice, but her body next to his was warm. A reminder of other memories, good memories.

Walking around the the passenger side of his car, Bullock opened the door and helped Fish inside. He joined her in the vehicle a moment later.

"So..." he asked, starting the ignition, "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Fish's face was once again hard, "I want information about those murders. If I'm to take additional precautions at the club, I need to know everything you know."

They drove through the dark city and talked. Bullock did not hold back any details about the crime. He knew Fish could handle it. The whole conversation was giving him a sense of deja vu. It had been a long time since he and Fish had been on the same side.

When they arrived back at her club, Bullock pulled the car up to the curb and shut off the engine. Fish was leaning her elbow against the door, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. The red light from her club's neon side silhouetted her features beautifully.

"Don't know about you," Bullock said, "But I think I'm going to hit the hay. This day has been too long and too weird. Do you want me to wait here until your boys get back?"

Fish smiled, a touch of real warmth on her face, "That won't be necessary. But thank you for the offer."

"Let me at least walk you in," he said, getting out of the car. She slid out onto the pavement next to him and looked up into his eyes.

"I'll call you tomorrow if I learn anything else," he said. She reached up and gave his cheek an affectionate caress before turning toward the club's front door.

Bullock watched her go for a moment before turning to head back to the driver's door. Before he could get into his car, Fish's voice cut sharp and cold through the night air.

" _Harvey_ ," she said, all warmth gone. Bullock frowned and moved quickly to her side. Fish was looking down at the ground. She took a step backward, away from the club.

"What is it?" he asked and followed her gaze.

On the ground in front of the door lay a smooth pale stone, oblong and covered in dark runes. Red ooze seeped from the markings, trailing up the wall to again form the symbol for the word 'blood'.

Fish looked up at Bullock. For the first time tonight, her face held real fear.

The artifact should have been locked behind a foot of steel and concrete on the other side of Fish's territory. It definitely should not have been waiting for them on the front step like a lost demon puppy.

He pulled out his side arm and spun to stand between Fish and the night's darkness. He saw her pull out her cell phone, push a few buttons and put it to her ear.

"Butch," she said, her voice steady, "Get back to the club now. _We have a problem..._ "

"To hell with that," Bullock said, "Get to the car."

" _No..._ I'm not..." Fish began again, then let out a yelp of surprise as someone lunged at her from the alley. Her phone clattered to the ground as she began to fight off her attacker.

Bullock tried to get at the assailant but a heavy object slammed into the back of his neck. He stumbled to one knee, grunting in pain. He was hit a second time and fell full onto the pavement.

He could still hear Fish struggling. His rattled mind almost felt bad for whoever decided to start a fight with Maria Mercedes Mooney. He rolled on his side and was able to make out Fish's vague outline in battle lit from behind by the red neon light.

_She is a goddess_ , was his last thought before he lost consciousness.


	9. Secrets and Symbols

Oswald rode in the front passenger seat of Fish Mooney's luxury sedan. Gilzean was driving as they escorted Claire Selton to her apartment across town. The librarian was sitting in the back quietly, only breaking their shared silence with an yawn.

"I don't know how you guys do these hours every night," Selton said, "It is way passed my bedtime."

"I suppose it does take some getting used to," Oswald replied, making an attempt at small talk, "When one is catering to Gotham's night life."

"Yeah, right," she replied, "You guys definitely run in different circles than me. My customers usually have a curfew or a date with the early bird special at Gracie's."

Oswald replied with a sociable chuckle, trying to emote amusement that he did not actually feel. He was having difficulty processing the evening's events. Blood symbols and possessed artifacts did not fit into his understanding of Gotham and, therefore, could only be seen as unacceptable distractions.

They had just passed over the Sprang River Bridge when Gilzean's phone began to chime. He dug it out of his coat pocket and flipped it open to his ear.

"Yeah, boss?" he said. Oswald noticed the big man tense. All the car's passengers jerked forward as Gilzean hit the brakes.

"What kind of...?" he continued but was cut off by Fish's cry of alarm, which was audible over the phone's small speaker. Butch yelled back in a vain effort to reach his employer, "Fish? _Fish?_ "

"What happened?" Claire asked, leaning forward. Oswald shook his head in confusion. Gilzean did not reply, shifting hard to put the car in reverse before turning and speeding back toward uptown.

"Don't know," he finally answered, sounding more fearful than the 'umbrella boy' had ever heard before, "Fish's in trouble. Something went down at the club. Oswald, get the Glock from the glove box. Kid, behind the back seat there's a panel. Open it and get out the goods."

Selton turned to obey asking, "The goods?"

Oswald looked in time to see the librarian remove a large shotgun from beneath the rear windshield.

"Oh, _holy crap_ ," she said. She sat again, gaping and looking ridiculous as she cradled the oversized weapon.

"Ever shot a gun before?" Butch asked, his words grave.

"No," Selton replied, "Never needed to."

Butch glanced at the young woman through the rear view mirror, then said, "Right. I guess not. But let me be frank, if somebody's attacking Fish and Bullock, we many need... fire power..."

The librarian expression turned grim as she said, "Fish told you. About me."

"Yeah... yeah, she did," Butch replied, then turned the vehicle sharply to the left, jostling the passengers violently.

Oswald's confusion was turning into anger, his grip unconsciously tightening around the gun in his hand. The other two exchanged some knowledge to which he was not privy. This city was full of secrets but there was very little he did not now know about Fish Mooney and her associates. Whatever information was being hinted at had been shared with Butch Gilzean, but Ms. Mooney had not yet chosen to share it with her 'umbrella boy'. The idea made him seethe with frustration. It was all he could do to keep the expression of innocent bewilderment on his face.

"Told him about wha...?" Oswald began but was cut off as Gilzean again turned the car full tilt around a corner. The late hour meant Gotham's streets were much less congested and Butch was practiced at driving the sedan at high speeds. They were making it to Mooney's in record time.

As they neared the club, Bullock's car was visible in the red light from the fish bone sigil. There was no sign of either Ms. Mooney or the detective. Gilzean reached back and took the shot gun from Selton before leaving the car. He ordered Oswald to follow. Selton exited as well, pacing just behind the two men.

Even in the low light, Oswald could make out the blood stains on the club's threshold, trailing up to form remnants of another horrible rune. The bottom left corner of the large glass window was cracked, glass trailing past the front door toward a tall scaffolding that rounded the building. He turned back toward the street in time to see Ms. Selton picking a battered fedora from the sidewalk.

The young woman looked distraught, croaking out, "Harvey..."

A cry echoed from the alley beyond the scaffolding along with the sound of a large engine.

"Fish," Butch said, running off beneath the metal beams. Oswald and Selton exchanged wary glances before trailing after the large man.

Rounding the corner, they found Butch pacing among the shadows. The alley seemed empty. The large man kicked a trash can in frustration.

"Dammit," he said, "We must've just missed them."

"N-now what?" Oswald asked, walking over to Gilzean cautiously, his eyes darting around in search of dangers.

Butch shook his head, "I don't know."

"Harvey had information about the murderers with him," Selton suggested, "It might still be in his car. Maybe the killers would take him and Fish to the same place."

"Fine," Butch replied, dismissively, "You go see what you can find."

"What about you guys?" the librarian asked.

" _I... don't... know_ ," the large man erupted, "Just _go_ and meet us back at..."

As Butch spoke, Oswald saw Selton's eyes widen in startled fear as she looked passed the two men. He and Gilzean were facing the librarian, backs to the dark alley. Butch's words were cut off by two separate bursts of light and sound and heat.

"Look out!" the young woman shrieked, lunging toward them.

Oswald heard the gun shots first, coming from the rear of the alley. In the same instant, Selton had shoved between him and Gilzean and an explosion of fire burst forth out of thin air. The blast rolled, almost in slow motion, the shadows of their hidden assailants brought into stark detail against the alley walls.

The unexpected glare and concussive force caused Oswald to lose his footing. He fell backward onto the ground, covering his face protectively with his arms. The seconds ticked by in slow motion until the inferno passed. He lowered his arms shakily and blinked to clear his vision.

Gilzean was also on he ground, sitting up supported by one hand, the shot gun clutched to his side. In the space between them, Claire Selton was down on one knee, her hands held out toward the far side of the alley. She was breathing heavily and the cuffs of her sweater were blackened and torn. The bricks of the buildings looming above were also charred. A dumpster had been blasted into a far corner.

He could distinguish three figures revealed by the flames. Two were running and the last lay motionless on the pavement. Butch quickly got to his feet, cocked the shot gun and gave chase.

Selton stood and turned in Oswald's direction.

"Are you okay?" she asked with concern, clutching her hands together with a wince. Oswald nodded and scrambled to stand, staring at the young woman with wonder. What had just happened?

Gilzean returned, his face red with fury. He stormed over to the remaining attacker and grabbed the man by the front of his hooded cloak. The man groaned unintelligibly through a black lacquer mask which Butch pulled roughly from his face. When it was clear the attacker was subdued and not currently a threat, Butch dropped him to the ground.

The large man kept his weapon focused on the prone figure, but glanced around the alley to take in the minor carnage. To Oswald's surprise, Gilzean turned toward the librarian, grinned and gave her a respectful nod of approval.

"Nice job, kid," he said. The librarian shrugged, looking embarrassed.

"Where did they go?" Oswald asked shakily. Butch passed the shot gun to Oswald who took it with his free hand.

"Don't know," Butch replied, hauling the semi-conscious attacker over one shoulder, "Why don't we have a chat with our new buddy here and find out?"

* * *

Inside Mooney's club, Gilzean tied the man to a high backed wooden chair and positioned him in the arch between the bar and the main hall. The rooms were dimly lit, none of' the flash and glamor remaining from earlier in the night. The rest of the staff had gone home, utterly ignorant of the fact their matron was in peril.

Gilzean went behind the bar, re-emerging after a moment with a bucket filled with melted ice. He dumped the cold water over the attacker's head and the man sputtered awake.

Oswald looked over the figure with disgust. The man was filthy, his clothes odorous and torn beneath his dark cloak. Where ever bare skin was exposed, the man was covered in the same cursed symbols that had adorned the stone artifact. The marking must have been done recently with ink. The water from Butch's bucket left dark liquid streaks running down the man's face and arms.

Selton stood to his right and he watched her out of the corner of his eye. She looked anxious but only clasped hands together rather than her normal habit of wringing them. Despite the need to focus on the pending interrogation of their prisoner, Oswald was still trying to puzzle out what had happened in the alley. They had been shot at, obviously. And Ms. Selton had taken what seemed a defensive stance between he and Gilzean. Then she had held out her hands and...

No. No, that did not make any sense. It was crazy. The kind of thing one would find on late night programs like _The Unexplained_ or trashy news rags like _The Weird World_. His mother had always had a penchant for things of such fancy and fantasy. But it was fiction, lies written to sell papers and distract the masses from Gotham's real dangers.

Through his disbelief, however, Oswald thought on Gilzean's unease toward the young woman and his vague warnings about 'things getting hot'. 'Fish told you about me', the librarian had said. _Fish knew about this._ And Bullock must know as well. The implications of what Oswald was deducing were staggering, a new, impossible piece on the game board.

Oswald's musings were disrupted by the vagrant's hoarse voice.

"Where...where am I?" their attacker asked.

"Hey, there," Butch Gilzean said in a deceptively friendly tone, "You're back with us. Welcome to Mooney's nightclub. I'm afraid you missed the party but... I'm sure we can figure something out special... just for you..."

The man twisted in the chair, pulling against the ropes holding him. He glared, trying to look defiant, but he was terrified. Oswald could have sensed his fear a block away. This man was no experienced killer or assassin. Just some thug in ugly make up.

"Now," Butch said in his viciously amicable manner, "Before the fun begins, I was hoping you could tell me where your friends took our boss. You know... pretty lady, gold dress. I wasn't there but I can only imagine what she did when your buddies grabbed her."

The cultist sneered, spittle flying from his mouth as he spoke, "The holder must be offered in tribute. Her blood will feed the darkness and the dead shall..."

His words were cut off by Butch's fist connecting with his mouth.

" _Where is she_?" Butch demanded. He hit the man again when he did not respond. After a third punch, a mad bubbling laughter came from their attacker's throat. Butch sighed angrily and turned to his cohort.

"Hey, Ozzy," he said with a dangerous grin, "Get me a knife."

Oswald moved to obey, anticipating with glee what would come next. He had the privilege of watching Butch work before, but only on weaklings and misbehaving oafs. This would be an entirely new level of education about the large man's talents.

Unfortunately, their female guest had more delicate sensibilities and disrupted.

"Wait a minute," she said quickly, "What are you going to do?"

"We ain't got time to mess around, kid," Gilzean responded, "Fish could already be strung up with these loony freaks getting ready to carve her apart. Bullock, too, don't forget. This guy's gonna talk... or he'll wish he had."

Oswald returned to Butch's side and handed him the knife.

"There's got to be another way..." the librarian pleaded.

Gilzean nodded, "Sure. If you would rather use your powers on this guy instead."

Oswald saw the first true anger appear on Selton's face. The sudden intensity was greater than anything he had witnessed from her before and there was no mistaking the increase in heat around them.

" _I don't... I won't do that_ ," she said, clenching her fists.

"Then, leave," he shot back, "And we'll take care of this."

Oswald watched the young woman struggle to keep her temper, take a deep breath and move toward Butch. She was able to put a calm, steady hand on the large man's arm.

"Let me try something," she said, then clarified, "Not fire. Something else."

Butch ground his teeth and acquiesced, "Okay. One minute. You got sixty seconds to make this guy tell us where Fish is... or I'll make sure he never talks again."

Selton nodded and moved to the bar, grabbing a waiter's order pad and pen. She tore off the top page and drew something on the back. She walked back toward the dirty, bloody man and held the paper up in front of his face. In an unexpected show of distress, their captive began to thrash in his seat, looking more terrified about the order slip than he had about Butch's fists.

"Okay," the librarian breathed with relief, then repeated the action. She drew a new symbol and showed it to the man, who groaned.

Oswald and Gilzean watched her repeat this action, baffled, until the cultist yelped in revulsion.

"Stop!" the man screamed, "I cannot bear witness to such blasphemy!"

Selton grinned, "I was right," then added, looking at Fish's employees, "About the artifact and the runes. I was right! The stone is used for evocation. Calling a spirit or demon. That's what these guys are trying to do."

Oswald exchanged confused looks with Gilzean, who frowned angrily.

"What does that have to do with finding Fish?" Butch asked.

"Because, now," she explained, "This guy's gonna talk."

Selton turned, holding out the felt tipped pen toward the cultist as if she were threatening him with Butch's knife. The man flinched back, his eyes filled with fear.

"Listen up, _mister_ ," she said, failing in her effort to sound tough, "I'm giving you one chance to tell us where you guys took Fish and Harvey. If you don't, I'm going to start drawing these symbols on your face!"

The man actually wailed. Oswald struggled not to burst out laughing from the absurdity of the man's distress due to the threat of a Sharpie.

"No! Please!" the cultist begged, "I'll do anything! Tell you anything! Just don't taint my being with such heresy!"

Butch stepped forward, not sharing Oswald's amusement, and asked, "Where is she then?"

"Railroad!" the man cried, "The underwater railroad tubes under the North River! The entrance from the old Arkham line! The control room for the supply train! That's where we were going!"

Gilzean nodded, satisfied by his captive's cooperation, and said, "Thanks, pal," before knocking the man unconscious.

"Oswald, get the guns," he ordered. When Selton looked ready to protest, Butch held up a hand and explained, "To take to the tunnels. We're not gonna kill this guy. He's coming along for the ride. In case we need more information... and you need to, you know, draw a dick on his forehead or whatever."


	10. Fire and Blood

Bullock slowly woke. His head throbbed. Nothing strange about that. So he did not immediately recall where he was or what was going on. To add to his confusion, he heard a soft, feminine voice echo from his right.

"Good morning, sunshine."

Bullock blinked into the dim light, trying to locate the source of the voice. It was Fish. Of course it was. He would know her voice even through the worst hangovers. How much did he drink last night?

When he found that he could not move his arms, clarity began to return. He squinted in Fish's direction and, instead of finding himself being gently urged awake after another bender, he realized she had been trying to rouse him to join her in their current nightmare. He was sitting up, leaning against a wall, his hands bound behind him. Fish was standing, her arms tied to a wall at roughly shoulder height. She was no longer wearing her long coat and, other than a scrape on her shin, did not seem hurt.

"Fish..." he managed, the back of his head pounding, "... What happened?"

She pursed her lips and sighed, sounding more inconvenienced than afraid, "You mean after my little trinket decided to reappear? It would seem your killers showed up to claim it."

The room came into focus as she spoke. They were in some kind of tunnel, the arched ceiling barely visible. What was clear were the symbols drawn crudely on the old bricks. There was a depression running through the middle, ending at a broken down wooden barricade. Bullock guessed correctly that was the stop point of a rail line, though there was no way to tell for which train. There were dozens of old railroad tracks running under Gotham and its rivers.

Bullock turned back to Fish, "Did they hurt you?"

" _Please_ ," she replied with dark humor, then added when his concern did not abate, "Just a little banged up. Took three of them to get me into their van. Not before I got my own licks in. Amateurs, to be honest. I don't think they've done this sort of thing before..."

"You sound a little insulted," he said, testing the ropes around his wrists for weakness.

Fish shrugged, "I supposed I've become accustomed to the finer things. Or at least a bit of professional decorum."

Bullock shook his head and chuckled, before asking, "You think your boys are pros enough to track us down?"

With only the slightest hint of hesitation, Fish replied, "Not just my boys but our girl. They'll find us. But we may need to take out these maniacs before that..."

"Right," Bullock replied cynically, "Just get ourselves untied, take out a cult of homicidal loonies and meet your town car outside in time for the breakfast buffet at Lazy Lou's. Perfect."

Fish gave him an oddly warm smile and was about to speak again when a door to the far end of the tunnel slammed open. Six hooded figures in black lacquer masked exited. The one in the lead was holding a box and held it out to Fish when he neared.

After a string of gobbledygook Bullock assumed as the same language as the symbols, the head cultist finally announced in Gotham's common tongue.

" _THE HOLDER OF SHALL BE OFFERED IN TRIBUTE TO PREMARACH!_ "

The other hood men cheered as their leader lay the box at Fish's feet. They all chanted more of their ancient crazy talk and walked back toward the door.

Bullock saw Fish looking in the box with a mix of disgust and anger.

"Do I wanna know?" he asked.

"Its my artifact," she replied simply, as blood began to seep out over the edges and trail up the walls.

* * *

Oswald exited Ms. Mooney's town car and clutched the glove box pistol in both hands. He, Gilzean and the librarian had arrived at an entrance to a long defunct train tunnel on the border of the Arkham district. They could not see the old asylum from where they parked but it was the destination of the old tracks. Gilzean wielded the shotgun as he joined Oswald and Selton outside the car. He handed the librarian a large silver flashlight.

"Welp," Butch announced, "This is it. Let's go..."

"M-mr. Gilzean," Oswald stammered with true fear as the larger man headed toward the tunnel, "Shouldn't we contact some of Ms. Mooney's other body guards? For... back up?"

"This ain't the GCPD," Butch said, still walking forward, "And besides anyone I call might not get here in time. If you can't hack it, then get lost. But don't bother showing your face any where in Gotham after that."

Oswald kept pace but ground his teeth. Confronting mad men down some dark hole for the sake of Fish Mooney was not something he wanted to do. But, if he stopped now, he would lose all the ground he had gained within Mooney and Don Falcone's circle of influence.

"Hang on," Selton said just before they entered the tunnel, "I have an idea of something that might help."

Butch did pause as the young woman spoke, Oswald nearly running into the large man's form. Selton removed the felt tip pen from her pocket and began drawing on her hand. She held up the resulting rune to show both men, who were watching her with puzzlement.

"The guy in the trunk flipped when he saw this symbol," she explained, "It's a counter to the ones he had drawn on his skin. It might make the others react the same way."

"I ain't into any crazy magic spell crap, kid," Butch said, shaking his head.

Selton shrugged, "Not saying it'll do anything magic. But maybe it might freak them out for a minute if we get in a tight spot."

"Good point," he said and held out his hand. Selton drew the same symbol on his palm and then turned toward Oswald.

Her skin was warm as she touched his arm and began to draw. Oswald then noticed for the first time that Selton's hands were red and chapped, small rows of blisters blotching her fingers. Holding the pen looked awkward as she finished the rune on his palm. Her hands had not been so injured earlier in the night when they were playing chess. Had her blast of fire in the alley done that?

Selton capped the pen, returned it to her pocket and gave him a nervous smile, "Better than nothing. Right?"

Oswald nodded but regarded the symbol doubtfully as he and Selton followed Gilzean into the dark passage.

The abandoned rail line was mostly dark; however, dim service lights still hummed every 15 feet or so along the wall. The metal rails were overgrown with moss and other plant life that thrived in dank, damp ground. The main sounds were dripping water and the echos of their footsteps but the high pitch squeal of rodents (rats or maybe bats) could also be heard.

Oswald would have been hard pressed to think of a worse place to be. He was going to need to have this suit laundered if he survived this farce. There was no way he was going to try to explain to his mother what happened to his fine clothes while he was ostensibly working at a night club.

After about ten minutes, Selton froze as the light from her torch focused on a bloody rune.

"Guess we're in the right place," Butch said, picking up his pace into a light jog. Oswald and Selton tried to keep up, being mindful of their steps along the moist floor.

From a short distance ahead, the sounds of voices began to chorus along the brick lined structure. Oswald could not understand what was being articulated but the rhythmic ugly words made his insides squirm with dread. Gilzean stopped by an open door and crouched, waving a hand at the other two to hold back.

Oswald saw the large man peer cautiously around the corner and inhale sharply with surprise.

"Fish?" Selton asked, "Is she...?"

"Alive," Butch said, then jerked his head toward the candle lit room and whispered, "Come on. Follow me."

They entered into a shorter tunnel which had turned off from the main tracks. It appeared to be an old way station for maintenance and emergency repairs, the arched shape disrupted only by a box like extrusion which Oswald guessed was the control room.

Near the center were a half dozen hooded figures in masks and one very unhappy looking Fish Mooney. His patroness was being held by a rope binding her arms to a make shift table... or altar, he supposed. There were numerous candles alight in circles around them. A top the altar was the damnable artifact that started all this trouble, continuing its revolting habit of bleeding everywhere. It was baffling how the cultists could have possibly got their hands on it since it had been locked away in Ms. Mooney's secret vault.

Butch guided the trio behind a stack of boxes, getting as close as he dared to survey the situation. From this vantage, they could see a new series of runes had been drawn on dirty paper and hung near where Fish was standing.

Oswald glanced at Selton and asked quietly, "Can you read that?"

"Uh huh," she acknowledged, looking anxious.

"Doesn't say anything good, does it?' Butch asked, his eyes narrow and assessing.

" _Nope,_ " she answered gloomily, shaking her head.

Butch repositioned his shot gun as if getting ready to make a move, "I guess 'welcome to our happy home' would've been too much to hope for."

Selton nodded and shrugged, "Yeah. It's more like 'Dear blood demon, We brought lunch, Hugs and Kisses, Crazy Cult Guys'."

" _Blood demon_?"Oswald repeated with a panicky whisper.

"Hugs and kisses?" Butch asked, sounding distastefully amused.

Selton lifted her head over the boxes slightly and asked, "Do you see Harvey?"

Gilzean gestured to a nearby corner with his gun, "There. Looks like he's alive but they got him tied up too."

"What do we do now?" Oswald asked, holding his own weapon tensely.

Before Butch could reply, one of the cult members began to speak intelligibly and they froze to listen.

* * *

Bullock was twisting again at his bound wrists as the cultists began their chant. It was clear they intended to sacrifice Fish to their crazy demon god and he felt utterly helpless to stop it. He jerked himself from side to side but only managed to move slightly to the right from his original position. He kicked in frustration and looked around, trying to find something he could use to free himself and save Fish.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted motion from the door leading out of the tunnel. He had never been happier to see Butch Gilzean's ugly mug in his life. He noticed the big man being trailed by Claire and Cobblepot and felt a twinge of unease. He had not wanted Claire to get tangled directly into the situation with these killers but it was too late now to correct his decision.

A moment later, Gilzean spotted him and indicated his location to the others. As the killers stopped chanting and spoke in English, Bullock returned his attention to them and their intended victim.

Fish Mooney stood next to the bloody altar in the center of the cultists and tapped her foot impatiently. She did not look afraid but her eyes were wary, watching her abductors carefully as they chanted their ridiculously verbose sermon. When the leader finally began to speak in a language she understood, Fish tilted her head and watched him with dramatic interest, as if she were fully invested in their mad ritual.

"Now we call to Premarach!" the leader said, "The holder shall claim this holy talisman and give herself to his dark embrace. Female! Do you so claim to be the holder of this stone?"

"Oh?" Fish replied with mock innocence, "You mean, this pretty thing? Why yes, darling, it's mine. It was bought and paid for."

The leader raised his arms and announced, "Behold! The admission of the holder! She shall be given as offering as we call upon Premarach to..."

His diatribe was interrupted by Fish's melodic laughter. Even though his face was mostly covered, the cultist's anger was apparent in his dark eyes. Bullock tensed and began to struggle again. He knew the glittering woman well and guessed what might happen next. A baseball bat was not Fish Mooney's only weapon.

" _You_..." the leader said, pointing at her, " _You dare laugh at the great Premarach? Father of madness? Eater of souls? His power is endless and monstrous! Do you have any idea what he can do to you?_ "

" _No,_ " Fish replied, her voice deadly and cold, "And, honey, you have _no idea_ what I can do. You and your little hooded pals are going to invoke a demon? _Do you even know where you are_? This is _Gotham_. This city is _built_ on blood and darkness. And you think you're gonna bring a monster into _my town_?"

Fish held up one pointed nail as far as she could and ticked it back and forth, making her chiding _tsk tsk_ noise.

"Tell you what, fellas," she offered to her dumbfounded captors, "Untie me now and maybe we can talk real Gotham business..."

The cult leader barked laughter, "Never! Never would we submit to a paltry mortal like you..."

Fish sighed, "Well, that is too bad..."

She leaned forward, alluring and seductive. As if he could not resist, the cult leader leaned in across the altar toward her. Fish's hands closed elegantly around one of the tall metal candle sticks.

"...because..." she purred, "In Gotham, the _monsters_ are afraid of _me._ "

In one quick motion, Fish swung the metal sconce upward, striking the cultist in the face. The force tore her bonds from the table and she stepped backward, wielding the bludgeon with deadly expertise.

As the other cultists sprang for her, Fish kicked aside more of the candles, causing fresh flames to creep up the wooden altar. She swung the metal stick side to side, grinning viciously.

Bullock spotted Gilzean get to his feet and open fire on the attackers. The sound of the shot gun was deafening in the enclosed space. Cobblepot was also shooting, though with less precision than his cohort. The detective felt hands upon his shoulders as Claire helped shift him upward. She untied his bonds quickly and he grabbed her to move back behind the stack of boxes.

As they ducked down, they found Cobblepot also taking cover having used up all his bullets. Fish and Butch seemed to be holding their own against the cultists, but the unholy zeal of the mad men gave them an unnatural stamina.

"Find a weapon!" Bullock ordered, picking up a jagged board and turning to join the fray.

* * *

Oswald followed the detective's order and looked around for something he could use to defend himself. The librarian did not, however, and was looking over the boxes with concern about the others. The flames from the overturned candles were spreading, creating an extra barrier to their escape. Oswald let out a cry of success and picked up a battered board. He tried to shift back toward Selton when he was knocked to the ground by one of the cultists.

With a cry of alarm, he skittered back away from the killer, who lunged forward with curled grabbing fingers. Over his left shoulder came another form and he found Claire Selton holding her hand out defensively in front of him. There was no fire this time, but the cultist reacted as if he had been burned.

"The rune," Selton said urgently, "Use the rune!"

Remembering her absurd suggestion, Oswald copied her motion and held his palm toward their attacker. The cultist flinched again, hesitant to approach the warding emblems. Oswald and Selton moved backward, until they were cornered near the position of their other comrades. The tunnel was beginning to fill with smoke, congesting his already taxed lungs.

" _Claire!_ " Oswald heard Fish Mooney yell, pulling his attention away from their attacker.

The librarian was staring at the flames dumbly as Ms. Mooney approached their location. The cultists were closing in around them, some brandishing long knives.

" _Claire!_ " Fish repeated, grabbing the young woman by the shoulder and shouting, " _Can you make us a way out of here?_ "

Selton's face was white with fear but Fish held her gaze and urged forcefully.

" _It's the only way out,_ " Ms. Mooney said, " _You can do this. We just need enough of a path to get out of here before..._ "

Fish was cut off by an impossibly loud shriek. All, captives and cultists, turned toward the remains of the altar.

Oswald stared with wide horrified eyes as the space above began to flux, the dark smoke coalescing into a distinct cloud. The pale stone was also fully ablaze, the runes pulsating with fiery light. The smoke seemed to stretch, bulging outward as if something was trying to push through.

The cult leader cried out in horror, " _No! It cannot be! The dark one cannot come forward without a scarifice! KILL HER!_ "

The desperate mob lunged toward them, intent on Ms. Mooney. Oswald tried to ward off an attacker again with the rune but the action had no effect. He swung the board instead, making contact with the killer's head. Bullock and Gilzean also wrestled with the masked men, coughing as the smoke became denser.

" _Claire!_ " Fish screamed, fighting with the cult leader, " _Please! Do it now!_ "

Oswald saw Selton's expression shift from fear to determination. She shoved passed the cultists, earning a knife wound to her arm in the process. She ran toward the altar, disappearing into the roaring inferno.

The air in the room suddenly seemed to be sucked toward the center. Oswald had to steady himself against the wall to keep his footing. As in the alley, the room seemed to take on an eerie slow motion. The fire slowed its progress across the tunnel, the plumes of flame tempering to move like a viscous gel. The dark cloud shrieked again, as if in protest.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Oswald slammed the board in his hand down upon the closest attacker, knocking the man to the ground. Impossibly, a path was breaking through the fire, giving them away to reach the door. Fish urged them forward and they moved clear of the gang of cultists. The air around them seemed to move again, this time blasting outward, the force shoving them all against the far wall. The flames leaped upward, engulfing the smoking, demonic cloud, which imploded with another inhuman howl. Then, the fire subsided and the only thing left standing in the center of the tunnel was the librarian's slender form.

Bullock moved first, taking quick steps around debris to reach Selton. Oswald heard him speak as Gilzean pulled at the door to the main tunnel.

"Hey..." the detective asked, reaching toward the young woman before hesitating and asking, "Claire? You okay?"

The librarian turned her head toward Bullock, her face blank and pale. She gave the detective the slightest of nods. Oswald could see the glint of tears running down her sooty face. Bullock put an arm around Selton's shoulders and lead her quickly back toward their group. Gilzean jerked the door open and the wooden form fell apart in his hands, half crumbling to ash.

Before exiting the cursed room, Oswald took one look back toward the smoking ruin. Fish's stone artifact was no where to be seen.


	11. Opportunity

The weary group arrived back at Fish Mooney's club an hour or so before sunrise. They had left their murderous attackers back in the old Arkham rail tunnel to await the arrival of reinforcements from the GCPD. Bullock had called for uniformed officers to come to the scene, claiming he had received an anonymous tip about the location. He had no intention of including the truth in his report, hoping any mention of Fish's involvement could be written off as the cultists' crazy talk. The killers were lucky Arkham was closed or else they might have found themselves with a one way ticket to a dark, basement cell.

Thoughts of Arkham were still on Harvey's mind as he handed Claire a glass of water. She was seated on a sofa in Fish's office, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The librarian's hands were trembling as she took the beverage. Fish was seated beside the younger woman, a look of genuine concern on her face.

Harvey could see the red, blistered skin on Claire's hands and the left side of her neck. He had to stifle a cringe. It was not the first time he had seen the librarian injured in this way. It had been something he had hoped never to see again. However, without Claire's intervention, they may not have escaped that god-forsaken tunnel.

Gilzean had brought up a first aid kit from the club's kitchen and, with the limited supplies, Fish was attempting to bandage the librarian's wounded skin. No one had bothered suggesting she go to the hospital and Harvey knew, if they had, Claire would have refused. Hospital staff might ask questions that she would not want to answer.

"How ya doing, kid?" he asked, crouching next to Claire and Fish.

Claire's eyes were glassy, dazed, but she replied, "I'm okay. My hands hurt. But I'm okay."

Bullock nodded, unconvinced, but did not challenge her. He watched as Fish gave the young woman a brief embrace and then held her shoulders firmly.

"Listen to me," Fish ordered, not unkindly, "You saved our lives tonight. Whatever else may come into your mind, remember that."

Claire nodded and took a drink from the glass in her hands before speaking again, "What about you?"

Fish smiled, her eyes glinting, "Don't you worry. The only thing those mad men hurt was my pride."

"Then," Claire began, watching Fish closely, "You're not upset the stone was lost?"

Fish sighed with annoyance, "Honey, if I never see that thing again, it will be too soon."

"So you renounce it?" Claire asked with a strange urgency, "You give up any ownership of it?"

"I _renounce it_ ," Fish agreed with amusement, "I deny it, disown it, disavow it. I wish it had never crossed my path and forsake any dollar amount I spent on it. Good riddance to it."

Claire nodded, took another sip of water, then said, "Good."

Bullock stood and gave Fish the slightest of nods to indicate his desire to speak out of the librarian's earshot. Fish understood and moved to join him in the hall.

Once they were outside of her office, Bullock looked down at Fish somberly and said, "This can't happen again."

Fish glared up at him, offended, and replied, "You make that sound like I wanted this to happen in the first place."

"Maria..." he began but she cut him off sharply.

" _Don't call me that_ ," she hissed under her breath.

" _Fish_ ," he corrected, anger tinging his tone, "You know what I mean. These things from the Underground you're playing with. They're all bad news."

She folded her arms defensively, "Let me worry about my business, Harvey."

"It's my business when you bring Claire into it," he shot back, then sighed and shook his head, "Why do you want to get involved with all that crap anyway? Isn't Falcone giving you enough action in Gotham?"

Fish glared at him, all warmth gone. He had struck a nerve. He did not know what Fish was up to with her pursuit of these 'artifacts' but he guessed it had to do with her position in Falcone's hierarchy. And power. Even when she had just been Maria, it had always been about power.

Bullock relented under the weight of her gaze and raised his hands, "Fine. Forget I said anything. I'm taking Claire home."

He walked around her and returned to the office to collect the librarian.

It was too much. Fish and Claire and Arkham. It was too much to think about sober.

* * *

Oswald was fidgeting with items on the club's long granite bar as he and Gilzean awaited their boss's next order. He was exhausted, limbs aching as he made miniscule adjustments to the various bar-tending accoutrements. Yet, the thought of departing without his employer's leave never crossed his mind. He had long nights at the club before. Not nights that involved violent confrontations with aberrant demon worshipers, which certainly contributed greatly to his fatigue. But the knowledge he had gained tonight about Gotham and its inner workings sustained him.

Fish Mooney had been plotting the downfall of Don Falcone since before she had hired her 'umbrella boy'. Oswald knew this by how she spoke of the old mobster and the moves she was making in the city's underworld. However, Fish's path was one of folly. He could see that. The pursuit of her precious artifacts appeared to be another sort of power play, more dangerous and unpredictable than roughing up competitors or bribing politicians. One little push, by the right person at the right moment, could derail Fish's entire operation. Then, Falcone would need someone new to shore up his influence.

His musings were disrupted as Detective Bullock, Ms. Mooney and Claire Selton returned to the first floor of the club. Oswald walked around the bar quickly to meet them and wait for instructions.

Selton had her bandaged arms folded over her chest, dark circles under her eyes stark against reddened skin. Had he not know of what occurred in the tunnel, he would have assumed she had been out in the sun too long without protection. But the burns were from fire. The librarian was not immune to flames, it would seem, despite her ability to conjure them. The revelation that one could possess such an ability was compelling. He wondered what other secrets were waiting under the city's surface for him to discover... and use.

None of his machinations showed on his face. Oswald put on the needed role, restless and eager to please.

"Oswald," Fish called, "Please show our guests out. It's been a long night and I think they've seen enough of us for the time being."

He nodded acknowledgment and went to retrieve their coats as Selton spoke.

"Take care of yourself, Fish," he heard the librarian say.

"You too, dear," his employer replied, then added amicably, "Come see us again sometime."

Selton nodded and turned toward Oswald as he returned to the bar. She took her coat from him, an odd smile on her face. She almost seemed embarrassed by the minor courtesy.

With a graceful motion, Ms. Mooney picked up Bullock's fedora from behind the bar. She touched the detective's arm to turn him back toward her, placed the hat on his head and grinned.

"Be good, Harvey," she purred.

Bullock returned the smile, "Always."

The two guests followed Oswald out of the club onto the damp sidewalk. The new day was bringing with it a misty rain that saturated the outside world. Sunlight would not accompany the dawn as thick clouds rolled over the city. Oswald opened his large black umbrella which easily covered himself and the librarian.

Bullock flipped up the collar of his jacket and said unhappily, "Lost my keys sometime tonight. Guess I'll be changing my locks. Fish said I can use her car to get you home. I'm gonna pull around... be right back."

The detective moved on around the corner to retrieve the vehicle, leaving Oswald alone with the librarian. He glanced at her and noticed she was making an effort not to wring her wounded hands. He wondered how conscious she was about that habit and how well it masked her destructive gift.

After a few quiet moments, Selton gave him an inquisitive look and spoke.

"Are you..." she began, paused as if in search of the right words and asked, "Are you freaked out?"

Oswald frowned and shook his head, "I don't know what you mean."

Selton folded her arms again, "I mean... about tonight. Aren't you bothered...by what happened?"

"It was a distressing evening," he agreed, trying to puzzle out the purpose of her questions, "For all of us, obviously. But...we won the day. Enemies defeated and, hopefully now, behind bars. Ms. Mooney will certainly bring in extra security until she's sure those cultists are not longer a threat."

"Oh...right," Selton said, then added, "I... I wasn't actually talking about the cultists."

"Then, what?" he asked frowning.

Selton held out her hands and sighed, sounding guilty, "I was talking about me."

Oswald comprehended her meaning. She assumed he would be experiencing the same apprehension Gilzean had displayed when he had knowledge of her abilities. While the concept of pyrokinesis was unnerving, he did not find himself concerned about his own safety in the librarian's presence. Surely if she was a danger, he would have heard of her existence in Gotham long ago.

His association with the young woman only made him think one thing. _Opportunity_. Such an ally could be unimaginably profitable. She had stopped bullets, stopped an inferno, blasted their enemies from their feet. The implication of how such a power could be used was staggering.

Betraying none of his thoughts, Oswald offered her a genial, sympathetic smile.

"Oh, I see," he said, "Please rest assured I have no presentiments about you at all. Ms. Mooney has your confidence and, now, so do I. Without your role in the night's events... well... things would not have ended in our favor."

Selton did not reply and studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable beyond her typical mild anxiety.

Beams of lights rounded the corner and Detective Bullock pulled Ms. Mooney's car up to the curb. Selton walked to the edge of the sidewalk, then turned to give him one last glance.

"Good night, Oswald," she said with a small, fleeting smile before opening the passenger door, entering the vehicle and departing.


	12. Aftermath

Fish Mooney tapped her foot impatiently on the wooden boardwalk as Butch pulled a man's disheveled form from the trunk of her car. The day promised to be unusually warm and business at the club would be bustling. So much to do and this was such an inconvenient waste of time.

It had been a week since the nastiness with the artifact cultists. It had taken them time to track this man down. Those who did business in Gotham's underworld had to know how to hide themselves if they wanted to survive.

The man yelped as he was tossed to his knees before her. When she normally did business with this man, he was well-dressed and polite, bureaucratic in his trade of rare antiquities. Now, he was sniveling, stammering through some plea for mercy. She folded her arms and sighed, sounding disappointed.

She smiled, her voice hard, "Are you ready to talk?"

"Y-y-yes, M-m-miss Mooney," the man said, holding his hands up pitifully, "What ever... what ever you want to k-k-know..."

"Good," she purred, "So... tell me. Where did you get that little trinket you sold me last week? Hmm? I paid you good money for the stone, and you promised me it would be an asset, powerful and deadly."

The man nodded feverishly, "It-it is! I swear it is! B-b-b-b-but..."

"But," she interrupted, "You didn't warn me it's power could be deadly to me. I was the owner, the holder. And it drew... unsavory individuals into my private space. _I could not use it's power._ It was not the weapon you had promised. So, I ask again, _where_ did you get it?"

Shaking his head, the man said, "I didn't... didn't get it. It... it was sent to me."

"Sent?" she repeated, "By whom?"

"I... I don't know..." he said, "An-an-anonymous seller. Th-th-through one of my contacts at the museum. B-b-but it was just like the one you described to me. The item you were looking for... s-s-so I...I... I offered it to you first. Y-you're my best customer, M-miss Mooney, and I would have never sold it to you if I had know that..."

Fish cut him off with a gesture of her hand. She put her hands on her hips and sighed again, dissatisfied with the man's explanation.

"I want you to talk to your contact at the museum," she ordered, one sharp nail aimed at the man's face, "I want to know where the stone came from. And if there are any more. Understood?"

The man nodded vigorously, "Y-yes, Miss Mooney. I-I'll see what I can find out."

Fish glanced to Butch and nodded. Butch lifted the man to his feet and shoved him on down the boardwalk with an order to 'get lost'. He walked back toward Fish, an expression of worry on his face.

"You really gonna try to find more of those things?" he asked, "Gotta be honest, boss, I was happy to hear from Bullock the first one didn't survive that fire."

"It about more than just those stones," she explained, turning to face the dark river, "We have to be prepared. Be ready for the aftermath once Falcone falls. Gotham is run by greater powers than our beloved Don and that fool Maroni. We need to have our own resources to match that power. We need _weapons._ Something that could break Gotham at its core if those behind the curtain try to strike at us once the old man is out of play. I don't intend to end up as second to another monarch."

She turned back toward him, her hard eyes glinting in the moonlight.

"This city will either become our heaven... or we will _drag it into hell_."

* * *

Harvey Bullock was unconsciously tapping a pen against his desk as he read the final report on the cultists and their murder victims. The case was closed as far as the GCPD was concerned. All evidence from the murder scene had been clearly connected to the mad men and, if the DA's office did its job, they would be behind bars for a long time.

He signed off on one final form and closed the file with a slap of his palm. He felt good. Killers were off the street, Fish and Claire were safe and, by some unearthly stroke of luck, he did not have a hangover. He could not remember the last time he had such a pleasant morning.

Bullock picked up the case file and headed toward Captain Essen's office to turn it in. He knocked on the glass and opened the door.

"Hey, Cap," he said with a grin, "Got one to knock off the list. I was thinking I might..."

Bullock paused when he finally registered that Essen was not alone in the small room. A younger man with a sharp crew cut was standing at attention before the Captain's desk, his hands clasped behind his back. Bullock raised his free hand apologetically before continuing.

"Oops, sorry," he said turning toward Essen, "Didn't notice you had company before I came in. Just wanted to leave you the case file for those ritualistic nut jobs. All signed, sealed and awaiting your approval before I send it down to Kringle."

"Harvey," Captain Essen said, the tempering tone Bullock loathed in her voice, "I'm glad you stopped in. I'd like you to meet the newest member of the GCPD."

The clean cut young man turned on his heel and held out a hand to the older detective. Bullock accepted the hand shake but could not fully keep the annoyance off his face.

"Jim Gordon," the young man said, "Nice to meet you."

"Harvey Bullock," the detective replied, grudgingly.

"Harvey's our lead homicide detective," Essen interjected, then paused before adding, "And will be your partner on the force."

Inwardly, Bullock cringed. Then, outwardly Bullock cringed. Why pretend? If Junior Cop was going to be his partner, may as well start off on an honest foot.

" _Great_..." he replied, " _Terrific_. Welcome to Gotham."

Bullock saw Gordon frown as stepped past to put the case file on Essen's desk. He turned to leave but paused when the Captain spoke again.

"Why don't you show Jim to his desk?" Essen asked, though it felt more like an order, "Then introduce him to the team."

Bullock turned back with a strained grin, " _Sure_. I'd be a joy. Come on, Jimbo. I'll give you the grand tour. But, first, I need an aspirin. I feel a migraine coming on."

* * *

Inside the Gotham City Public Library, Oswald Cobblepot opened a door marked "employees only". He entered a storage room located near the rear of the building in search of Claire Selton. The squeak of a rolling ladder gave away her location in the vast, cluttered space.

Oswald moved between stacks of boxes and books until he located the librarian. The young woman was wearing headphones and humming along to her music as she sorted through a pile of old books. Her hands were no longer bandaged, her injuries mostly healed. She once again only appeared to be the unassuming language scholar Fish had sent him to find. After a moment, Selton noticed her unexpected visitor.

"Oh...Hi," she greeted him, taking the buds from her ears.

"Hello again," he replied, offering a small bow.

"How'd you get passed the 'guards'?" Selton asked with a grin, "Mrs. Tretter doesn't let anyone back here if they're not on staff."

"Well," Oswald said with a shrug, "I came bearing a big check with her name on it."

Selton chuckled, "I'm glad Fish made good on that or I would've never heard the end of it."

She walked around the table toward Oswald and gave him a measuring look.

"So... how are you?" she asked, "Any other problems at the club?"

"No, not at all. Everything has been right as rain," Oswald answered, then lied, "Ms. Mooney asked me to see how you were fairing."

Selton replied with a shrug, "Believe it or not, I've been through worse. I'm just glad the stone is gone and things are back to normal."

"Ms. Mooney was not pleased by her loss," he said, then continued, "Ms. Selton, I..."

"Claire," she cut in.

"What?" he asked.

"You can call me Claire," she said, "I'm on a first name basis with anyone who has helped me fight crazy blood demon worshipers."

Oswald was caught off guard and, when he did not immediately reply, Selton continued.

"And it doesn't really matter if Fish isn't pleased," she said defensively, "She said she renounced it. I heard her. She gave it up as lost and said she no longer wants ownership of it."

"A wise choice. The artifact was certainly no good for business," Oswald replied, then added, "So... where is it?"

Claire looked surprised, "Why would I know? Harvey said it wasn't found with stuff GCPD took from the tunnel."

Oswald smiled knowingly and explained, "His assumption was that the stone was destroyed in the inferno. Both you and I know that's not true. Last week, in Ms. Mooney's office, she set the artifact on fire with no ill effect. It seems highly improbable it was destroyed and you were the only one who could get close to it at the end of our misadventure."

A strange smirk appeared on the librarian's face, similar to the expression she had when Oswald had initially bamboozled Mrs. Tretter with 'donation' promises.

"I sent it," she admitted, "Somewhere I hope is safe. Away from Gotham."

"And may I ask where?" he inquired.

"You may but I won't tell you," Selton said, "Or Harvey. Or Fish."

Oswald felt annoyed by her intransigence but he had been expecting nothing less.

"I suppose you gave full report to Professor Shore at the museum," he chided, "After all, you wanted his input with..."

"The Professor doesn't know either," she admitted.

Oswald finally returned her smirk, "Playing to a draw?"

Selton shrugged, not willing to give away any more of her gamble.

"Let's just hope nothing else like that finds its way to Gotham," she concluded.

"Agreed," Oswald replied, though her last statement left him much to ponder. What 'else' could she be referring to?

* * *

Several hundred miles away from Gotham, a man in a tan trench coat and loose red tie waited at the service desk of a post office just outside of Atlanta, Georgia. He drummed his fingers impatiently against the Formica counter as the postal worker searched for his package.

Some annoying gut instinct had sent him to the post office that day. He had not actually expected to find anything in his assigned PO box but, lo and behold, it contained a little yellow package delivery card.

"Here you go," the young woman behind the counter said cheerily when she returned and passed him a sealed cardboard box.

"Thanks a lot, love," he replied, hoisting up his parcel and heading outside.

A block or so away, he found an open park bench and sat down with the package next to him. He pulled a cigarette from the pack in his coat, lit it and took a drag before turning his attention back to the box.

He tore at the binding tape and pulled apart the top flaps. Inside were several plastic bags and newspapers used as cushioning. He untied the plastic handles of the inner most wrapping and pushed the bag open to reveal its contents.

The package contained an oblong, pale, blank stone roughly the side of a dessert plate.

John Constantine rubbed one hand through his hair and sighed before muttering over his cigarette.

" _Oh, bollocks_."


End file.
